University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

PROFESSOR 
GEORGE  R.  STEWART 


' 


- 


7 


THE    EYEITNG    BOOK 


(GO) Hi'  °  :? 


Uew  T"1  rk 


.-*, 


THE    EVENING    BOOK 


OB, 


FIRESIDE  TALK 


MORALS  AND  'MANNERS,   WITH  SKETCHES  OF 
WESTERN  LIFE. 


BY 

MRS,   KIRKLAND, 

AUTHOR  OF    "  A  NSW  HOME,1'    "  HOLIDAYS  ABROAD,"  BTC. 


NEW  YORK: 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER,  145  NASSAU  STREET. 
1853. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1851,  by 

CHAKLES    SCEIBNEK, 

In  the  Cbrk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New  York. 


C.  W.  BENEDICT, 

STEKEOTYPER, 
201  "William  Street 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

DESIGNED  BY  DALLAS— ENGRAYBD  BY  BUBT. 

PAGE 

HOSPITALITY,        . .       .       .          Frontispiece 

CONVEESATION, Vignette 

THE    HOUSEHOLD, 13 

THE    TOILET, ......          117 

THE   LOG   SCHOOL   HOUSE, 17C 

COUKTING    BY    PEOXY, .       .  236 

THE    COUNTRY    FUNEBAL, 2C1 


CONTENTS. 


. s  PAGE 

THE  HOUSEHOLD,                           , 13 

A  CHAPTER  ON  HOSPITALITY,     .......  26 

THE  MYSTEET  OF  VISITING, 86 

THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  DRESS, 48 

JONVERSATION,           .          v.           .           .           .     \    .          .           .  75 

WHAT  SHALL  WE  BE  ? .  101 

/ 

FASTIDIOUSNESS, *          .  117 

• 

BUSH-LIFE,          .           .           .           . 181 

STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD,          ...  145 

THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE,    . 1?0 

STANDARDS,       ...  185 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PA  OB 

SKETCH  OF  A  CASE ;  OE  A  PHYSICIAN  EXTEAOEDINAEY,      .  .      199 

THE  DARK  SIDE, 213 

COTJETING  BY  PBOXY.    (A  Tale  of  New  York),    .          ,          .          .          .235 

GEOWING  OLD  GEACEFULLY, .246 

THE  TOWN  POOE.    (A  Western  Eeminisceaoe,) 261 

THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL, .278 

THE  SINGING  SCHOOL,        .          .          .          ,      •  .          .  .289 

V  _      /_    '«.  ; 

A   WEDDING  IN  THE  WOODS,     . 801 


PREFACE. 


WE  are  asked  sometimes  by  those  we  would  amuse — 
'Is  it  true?' 

If  there  were  room  here  for  a  discussion  as  to  what  is 
'truth'  in  such  cases,  I  might,  to  such  a  question 
touching  this  our  evening  volume,  answer  Yes!  to  my 
own  satisfaction  at  least ;  for  I  have  a  private  conviction 
that  a  certain  kind  of  truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  the 
pieces  that  compose  it.  They  have  been  written  in  various 
moods  ;  some  gay,  some  grave ;  some  hopeful,  some  a  little 
desponding,  as  the  characters  or  events  of  the  hour  tinged 
the  thoughts  with  rose-color,  sober  grey,  dreaded  blue, 
and — perhaps  the  reader  will  think — an  occasional  shade 
of  green.  But  every  writer  has  before  him  an  imaginary 
audience,  and  mine  is  usually  composed  of  young  people, 
so  I  will  hope  the  sombre  tints  will  not  be  found  to 
prevail.  One  hates  to  be  set  down  as  a  mere  moral izer— <- 
a  tiresome  companion  anywhere.  A  generally  serious 
aim  I  am  content  to  avow,  and  I  confess  also  an  ambition 
to  make  a  peculiarly  American  book ;  not  that  I  think 


X  PREFACE. 


American  views  of  manners  and  morals  should  be  partial 
or  narrow,  but  because  the  foreign  literature  which  fur- 
nishes most  of  the  reading  of  our  young  people  seems  to 
me  likely  to  inspire  them  with  un-American  ideas  of 
society  and  even  of  duty,  and  it  becomes,  therefore, 
especially  desirable  to  refer  sometimes-  to  the  ancient  and 
universal  standards — those  whose  excellence  is  beyond 
dispute,  though  portions  of  the  world  have  departed  far 
from  their  influence,  led  away  by  the  incorrect  notions  of 
life  which  prevail  in  old  and  corrupt  communities. 

If  I  could  have  the  least  influence  in  recommending 
simplicity,  truthfulness,  and  humanity  of  manners,  I 
should  feel  proud  indeed.  By  c  humanity'  in  manners, 
I  would  be  understood  to  mean  manners  founded  on  the 
great  law  of  love,  and  not  on  mere  convention — springing 
from  a  principle,  and  not  poorly  imitative  of  'those  whom 
we  are  humble  enough  to  look  upon  as  above  us.  Fine 
manners  are  those  which  show  full  and  due  consideration 
for  every  one's  merits  and  feelings — quite  another  affair 
from  fashionable  manners,  which  are  respective  only  of 
worldly  advantages.  That  these  are  but  poor  reasons 
for  a  show  of  kindness,  we  must  all  have  felt.  As  we 
frequently  discern  beneath  the  assumptions  of  refinement, 
evidences  of  revolting  coarseness,  so  we  often  find  under 
the  roughest  exterior,  tokens  of  a  delicacy  which  needs 
but  favoring  circumstances  to  make  it  charming;  and 
if  we  are  shocked  at  the  exhibition  of  mean  qualities  in 
the  uncultivated,  it  is  well  to  learn  to  feel  that  they  are 
even  more  disgusting  in  those  who  have  had  greater 


PREFACE.  xi 


advantages.  We  may  be  amused  at  the  crude  notions 
entertained  by  the  rough  backwoodsman  on  the  subject 
of  education,  but  we  ought  to  contemplate  with  serious 
regret  the  condition  of  those  who,  content  with  the  merest 
froth  of  learning  and  accomplishments',  fancy  themselves 
much  higher  in  the  intellectual  scale  than  their  brethren 
of  the  forest. 

It  is  evident  that  to  meet  worthily  all  varieties  of 
human  character  ^and  claims,  as  consistent  American 
citizens  are  bound  to  do,  we  need  some  standard  that 
knows  no  fluctuation,  no  caprice  ;  that  owes  no  moulding 
to  the  pride  or  whims  of  people  living  under  different 
circumstances,  and%  acknowledges  subjection  only  to 
principles  that  govern  the  universal  human  heart.  If  I 
have  succeeded  at  all  in  expressing  my  convictions  on 
this  subject,  a  reference  to  it  will  be  found  more  or  less 
prominent  in  all  the  sketches  and  essays  that  follow. 


THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

WHAT  an  old-fashioned  word !  Yes — and  it  means  an  old- 
fashioned  thing  too.  A  "  post-coach"  of  twenty  years  ago  in 
comparison  with  a  rail-car  of  the  present  day,  is  as  the  "  household  " 
of  our  great-grandfathers  to  the  "  menage  "  of  our  time.  The  keep 
of  a  feudal  castle  would  look  rather  out  of  place  among  the  con- 
servatories, artificial  waterworks,  and  Chinese  bridges  of  a  modern 
garden ;  perhaps  the  household,  or  citadel  of  home,  has  as  little 
claim  to  a  position  of  honor  among  the  "  refinements  "  of  fashion- 
able society.  What  need  of  walls  or  intrenchments  when  we  live 
for  the  public  ?  Privacy  is  but  another  word  for  ennui ;  retirement 
has  but  one  meaning  or  value — that  of  affording  opportunity  ot 
preparation  for  display.  If  we  would  shut  out  the  world,  it  is  only- 
when  nature  imperiously  demands  a  moment's  respite  from  its  glare. 
Happy  they  whose  nerves,  like  iron,  grow  the  tougher  by  hammer- 
ing !  They  need  lose  no  time. 

Yet  there  was  something  pleasant  in  the  antiquated  idea  of  the 
home  citadel.  The  old-fashioned  parlor — what  a  nice  place  it  was  ! 
It  had  no  twin,  and  could  have  none,  for  its  best  ornaments  were 


14  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


such  as  no  skill  of  upholstery  could  match.  Where  could  we  get 
another  grandmamma  for  the  warm  corner  ?  Dear  old  lady,  with 
her  well-starched  laces,  her  spotless  white  satin  cap-riband,  her 
shining  black  silk  gown  and  shawl,  her  knitting,  and  her 'foot-stove — 
who  can  replace  her  ?  And  in  the  corner  next  the  window,  where 
the  light  can  fall  on  her  left  hand,  so  that  the  flitting  shadow  of  the 
ever  busy  right  may  not  confuse  the  stitches,  there  is  mamma,  with 
her  capacious  work-basket  before  her  ;  a  whole  array  of,  not  spools, 
but  cotton-balls  or  thread-papers ;  pin-cushions,  emery- bags,  thimbles, 
needle-books,  on  the  table  at  her  side  ;  not  to  mention  the  piece  $f 
wax  gashed  and  criss-crossed  in  every  direction  by  whistling  threads, 
the  very  emblem  of  seamstress-thrift  in  the  good  days  of  old.  A 
clear  light  comes  in  at  the  window,  for  rooms  where  sewing  is  to  be 
done  must  not  be  dimmed,  let  the  carpets  fade  as  they  will ;  no 
becoming  twilight,  therefore,  can  be  among  the  attractions  of  our 
household  parlor.  When  papa  sits  down  to  his  paper,  he  must  have 
sunshine,  or  the  next  best  thing  that  is  to  be  had ;  his  eyes  will  not 
serve  him  for  light  made  gray  or  milky  by  struggling  through  thick 
linen,  and  he  has  never  been  used  to  sitting  in  the  basement  to  "  save 
the  parlors."  What  a  cheerful  rendezvous  this  makes  for  the  children 
when  they  come  from  school ;  no  seeking  mamma  in  bed-rooms, 
nurseries,  or  odd,  out-of-the-way  nooks  and  corners,  to  which  it  would 
require  a  terrier's  instinct  to  trace  her  with  any  precision.  A  radi- 
ating centre  of  light  and  love  is  easily  found,  and  young  hearts  thrill 
with  a  pleasure  all  the  sweeter  for  being  undefined,  as  they  approach 
it.  Affection  melts  and  flows  around  in  this  genial  atmosphere,  till 
it  fills  the  whole  mould,  giving  out  smiles  and  kisses  as  it  goes. 

Such  a  parlor  as  we  are  describing — large,  square,  light,  cheerful 
and  intensely  human  in  its  aspect,  admits  no  furniture  too  rich  or 
too  fragile  for  daily  use.  Any  brown-hoUanding  of  chairs  and  sofas, 


THE    HOUSEHOLD.  15 


or  grazing  of  lamps  and  candelabra  would  "be  out  of  character.  A 
drugget  is  admissible,  for  a  great  deal  of  eating  is  done  in  this  room, 
and  little  feet  might  tread  bread-and-butter  and  potato  into  the  car- 
pet unhandsomely.  A  sideboard  is  essential,  for  it  gives  a  hint  of 
hospitality  ;  and  a  plate-warmer  may  stand  near  it  without  a  blush. 
A  nest  of  salvers  graces  a  recess — old  social  friends  now  banished  to 
the  china-closet.  The  mantelpiece  shows  lamps  and  candlesticks ;  a 
three-minute  glass  for  boiling  eggs  by ;  a  small  marble  bust  of 
Washington  for  a  centre-piece,  and  china  flower-pots  at  the  ends ; 
besides  a  pair  of  card-racks,  in  which  are  displayed  a  dozen  or  so  of 
cards  somewhat  yellowed  by  time  and  good  fires.  A  picture  hangs 
above  ;  perhaps  a  colored  engraving  from  Morland,  in  which  cows, 
pigs,  and  chickens  remind  the  young  folk  of  that  delightful  summer 
when  they  were  in  the  country,  romping  in  haymows,  and  chasing 
Uncle  John's  old  horse  round  the  field,  hoping  to  inveigle  his  senile 
sagacity  to  the  bridle  cunningly  hidden  behind  Charlie's  back. 
Crimson  curtains  there  are,  but  not  too  close,  and  a  few  geraniums 
and  monthly  roses  stand  just  where  they  can  catch  the  morning 
sun,  which  shines  through  their  leaves,  producing  another  summer 
illusion.  The  tables  have  newspapers,  pamphlets,  and  books  on 
them ;  for  conversation  is  a  chief  amusement  of  the  true  household 
parlor,  and  all  the  topics  of  the  day  are  in  place,  from  the  congres- 
sional debates  to  the  new  novel,  or  the  theatrical  prodigy.  The 
pianoforte  is  conspicuous  at  one  side  of  the  room,  and  plenty  of 
music  lies  about  it ;  arid  a  flute  is  there — for  fluting  is  almost  a 
domestic  duty. 

But  we  need  not  further  particularize,  for  the  main  point  in  a 
household  parlor  is  the  air  of  life,  freedom,  affection,  and  intelli- 
gence ;  the  unmistakeable  signs  of  a  common  interest ;  the  nestling 
and  home-like  look  of  mother's  corner,  and  the  severer  dignity  of 


16  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


grand-mamma's  ;  the  all-day  tone,  as  if  a  pleasant  call  was  always 
acceptable,  and  was  accounted  among  the  proper  belongings  of  the 
social  area.  *  There  may.be  shreds  on  the  carpet  and  "a  litter  of  play- 
things under  the  table,  but  no  cold  look  will  remind  the  visitor  that 
the  proper  hour  has  not  been  hit.  Mamma  may  be  washing  up  the 
breakfast  things,  but  she  will  not  run  away,  or  even  hide  her  towel, 
if  one  of  papa's  good  friends  stops  in  on  his  way  down  town.  She 
will,  more  probably,  defer  a  little  her  daily  visit  to  the  kitchen, 
rather  than  lose  the  talk  of  the  grave  men  about  politics  or 
business. 

Wherein  consists  the  difference  between  such  a  parlor  as  we  have 
sketched,  and  the  morning  room  of  fashionable  houses  ?  Our  little 
picture  doubtless  seems  a  mere  vagary  of  the  imagination,  like 
impossible  Swiss  scenery ;  our  young  readers  can  hardly  believe 
such  things  ever  were,  and  they  are  far  from  desiring  that  they 
should  come  back  again  ;  so  different  is  the  whole  course  and  cur- 
rent of  their  ideas  of  domestic  life.  In  what  consists  the  difference  ? 
Is  it  in  particulars  only,  or  in  the  spirit  of  the  household  ? 

There  is  hardly  a  town  in  all  this  glorious  and  blessed  Union  of 
ours,  where  we  do  not,  or  may  not  hear  lamentations  over  the  old 
times  of  sociability,  and  free,  neighborly  intercourse.  In  some 
places  it  is  '  Before  our  society  became  so  large,'  in  others,  *  Before 
we  had  a  few  rich  people  among  us,  who  set  expensive  fashions,  and 
encouraged  ceremony  and  show.'  In  the  cities  it  may  perhaps  be, 
1  It  is  in  vain  to  attempt  social  visiting  here.  The  gentlemen  are 
so  late  at  their  business,  and  come  home  so  tired,  that  they  want 
nothing  but  rest ;'  or  '  The  ladies  have  become  so  fashionable  that 
nothing  but  a  morning  call  is  permissible  without  special  invitation.' 
So  we  are  to  suppose  there  is  but  little  beside  formal  or  showy  visit- 
ing. And  does  this  bespeak  greater  privacy  and  comfort  at  home  ? 


THE    HOUSEHOLD.  17 


All  experience  says  no !  Social  feeling  is  an  element  of  home ; 
pride  is  the  enemy  of  both.  A  home  pervaded  by  the  true  spirit  is 
gladdened  by  the  voice  of  a  friend.  A  home  in  which  the  educa- 
tion of  children  is  a  sacred  object,  covets  the  conversation  of  intelli- 
gent and  various  guests.  A  home  of  whose  harmony  religion  is  the 
diapason,  breathes  a  spirit  of  hospitality.  In  none  of  these  will  the 
alternation  be  between  seclusion  and  display — two  extremes  equally 
inimical  to  joyous  domesticity.  Common  life  will  be  allowed  to 
flow  through  them,  for  the  sake  of  its  healthy  current,  its  fertilizing 
clouds  and  dews,  and  the  rainbow  gleams  that  flit  across  its  surface, 
wherein  the  eternal  stare  are  mirrored.  Life  !  how  mad  to  shut  it 
out  for  pride's  sake ! 

But  we  must  yield  to  circumstances !  Ah  indeed  !  were  circum- 
stances made  for  man,  or  man  for  circumstances  ?  What  compelling 
power  binds  us  in  the  traces  of  fashion  ?  Whose  folly  is  it  that 
makes  us  ashamed  of  domestic  employments,  in  such  sort  that  we 
sedulously  banish  every  symptom  of  them  from  the  seen  part  of 
our  life  ?  Who  is  it  that  measures  out  the  forms  with  which  a 
neighbor  must  be  received,  or  the  degree  of  dress  necessary  to  make 
an  unexpected  visit  agreeable  ?  It  is  in  vain  to  talk  of  '  Society,' 
as  if  society  were  a  huge,  irresistible  Morgante,  using  us  as  tools  or 
servants,  or  a  tremendous  cyh'nder  flatting  us  out,  in  spite  of  our- 
selves, like  mere  dough.  We,  and  such  as  we,  make  society,  and  it 
is  our  individual  cowardice,  or  mean  ambition,  that  keeps  it  from 
improving.  Every  virtuous  "family  has  the  seeds  of  rational  and 
happy  society  within  itself.  There  is  the  community  of  interest,  and 
the  consciousness  of  this  community,  which  is  the  first  requisite  for 
justice  and  harmony.  There  is  the  instinctive  and  habitual  affec- 
tion, which  is  the  only  omnipotent  antidote  against  those  paroxysms 
of  selfishness  or  ill  humor  to  which  we  are  all  liable,  and  must  be 


18  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


so  while  we  are  in  a  condition  in  which  mind  and  body  contend  for 
mastery  with  alternate  success.  There  are  the  various  tastes  of  age 
and  youth,  sex,  genius,  and  idiosyncrasy,  which  are  necessary  to  an 
exciting  and  profitable  variety  of  interest.  There  is  the  felt  neces- 
sity for  a  common  and  inflexible  standard  of  duty,  to  which  all  may 
refer  without  fear  of  contradiction.  There  are  the  antagonist  cir- 
cumstances of  joy  and  sorrow,  misfortune  and  success,  transgression 
aud  repentance,  authority,  restraint,  and  struggling  wjll,  demanding 
that  sympathy  without  which  we  should  all  become  intolerable  and 
hard-hearted  egotists,  in  the  course  of  our  threescore  and  ten  years' 
intercourse  with  the  world  at  large.  In  short,  home  is  indeed  a 
little  world ;  and  in  each  household  we  see  in  some  sense  a  resem- 
blance to  the  society  of  which  it  forms  a  part.  If  love  and  truth, 
justice  and  religion,  reigned  within  our  homes,  so  would  they  in 
social  life  ;  if  pride,  desire  of  display,  and  of  appearing  what  we  are 
not ;  if  a  longing  for  excitement,  a  secret  indulgence  of  vicious 
inclinations,  and  the  selfish  forgetfulness  of  the  oneness  of  family 
interests  characterize  our  household  life,  so  will  they  form  the  staple 
of  that  *  Society'  which  we  are  fond  of  making  a  scape-goat  of. 
The  decay  of  the  household  fire  is  the  cause  of  our  social  coldness ; 
if  we  would  have  our  outer  intercourse  rational,  unaffected,  sympa- 
thetic, improving,  and  beneficent,  we  must  reform  onr  domestic 
maxims. 

One  theme  of  conservative  satire  against  our  newfangled  republic, 
— satire  hissed  abroad,  and  cautiously  echoed  at  home, — is  the  want 
of  reverence  and  subordination  observable  in  our  young  people,  as 
if  it  were,  as  indeed  we  have  heard  it  gravely  asserted  to  be,  a 
natural  consequence  of  our  institutions.  But  surely  this  is  a  misun- 
derstanding of  the  very  nature  of  liberty,  which  is  to  be  esteemed 
only  as  the  handmaid  of  obedience. 


THE    HOUSEHOLD.  19 


For  who  loves  that,  must  first  be  wise  and  good. 

and  there  is  no  goodness  where  there  is  no  reverence.  Our  own 
thought,  as  to  this  confessed  want  in  the  rising  generation  is,  that  in 
the  wild  chase  after  wealth  and  social  distinction,  the  old-fashioned, 
fundamental,  patriarchal,  God-given  idea  of  the  household  is  merged 
into  a  sort  of  domestic  republic,  in  which  all  are  free  and  equal,  and 
the  very  notion  of  natural  headship  is  repudiated,  the  prominent 
object  being  not  the  family  but  the  world ;  not  the  ark  of  shelter, 
but  the  struggling  waves  around  it,  and  the  floating,  slippery  trea- 
sures upon  them.  For  these  we  venture  all ;  for  these  we  are 
content  to  dive,  to  dwell  on  rafts,  or  cling  to  pieces  of  wreck ;  to 
dare  the  unknown  monsters  of  the  deep ;  to  go  down  with  both 
hands  clutched  full  of  the  spoils  with  which  we  thought  to  return 
home  at  evening.  Our  thoughts  may  revert  to  the  light  which  we 
know  is  shining  there,  but  the  glare  about  us  makes  it  seem  tame, 
if  not  contemptible.  But  are  the  young  people  alone  to  blame  for 
these  false  and  foolish  notions  ?  Alas,  no !  Have  we  not  taught 
them  that  the  time  spent  under  the  paternal  roof  is  only  a  time  of 
training  for  the  great  arena  ?  Has  the  happiness  of  home  been  an 
important  end  with  us,  or  have  we  let  it  slip  into  the  class  of  acci- 
dents, not  worth  considering  in  comparison  with  life's  great  object  ? 
The  weariness  of  this  grinding,  unsatisfactory  life  of  ours  makes  our 
children  necessary  as  playthings,  so  long  as  they  can  amuse  us ;  and 
the  moment  they  pass  this  age  their  preparation  for  grinding  on 
their  own  account  commences,  and  we  hasten  to  throw  them  on  their 
individual  responsibility.  Authority,  that  soul  and  sun  of  the 
household,  is  unknown.  We  try  a  little  government  or  control  of 
actions ;  but  we  make  but  slender  effort  towards  producing  the 
state  of  mind  which  makes  it  natural  to  obey.  Our  children  are 
therefore  satisfied  if  they  fulfill  a  certain  specified  round  of  duty  or 


20  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


observance  towards  us.  Filial  piety  is  really  and  truly  an  obsolete 
expression  in  the  nineteenth  centuiy ;  it  smacks  of  feudality,  even. 
It  is  the  tendency  of  an  analytic  and  utilitarian  age  to  strip  com- 
mon life  of  its  poetry,  and  the  household  sufftrs  with  the  rest.  We 
live  for  the  future — whether  in  a  wise  sense  or  not  is  the  question. 
To  live  truly  for  the  future  we  must  live  in  the  present.  "  The  life 
that  now  is"  is  the  key  of  the  future.  Certainly  at  some  period  of 
our  existence  we  must  undergo  a  moral  and  spiritual  probation  with 
express  reference  to  our  ultimate  moral  and  spiritual  state.  Nature 
seems  to  have  appointed  the  domestic  circle,  in  all  its  closeness  of 
relation,  openness  of  vision,  and  emotional  incident,  as  the  infant 
school  for  eternity.  Later  we  are  transferred  to  a  more  advanced  or 
enlarged  seminary  on  the  same  plan,  where,  in  due  time,  we  take 
the  place  of  teachers,  though  we  are  still  learners,  too,  repeating  on 
a  larger  scale  the  lessons  of  the  household.  What  a  beneficent 
arrangement,  if  we  would  but  enter  into  it  heartily  !  What  train- 
ing in  love,  in  patience,  in  fellow-feeling,  in  pity,  in  self-control,  and 
self-denial !  What  strength  in  union,  what  comfort  in  mutual  reli- 
ance, and  the  unwavering  confidence  of  sympathy ! 

The  unsophisticated  imagination  delights  in  the  notion  of  the 
household,  its  seclusion  which  is  not  solitude — its  exclusion  which 
is  not  inhospitality — its  unity  which  implies  variety.  Children  know 
this,  as,  when  two  of  them  will  sit  down  under  a  great  basket,  and 
look  round  with  a  feeling  of  delicious  snugness,  saying,  "  This  is  our 
house ;"  or  with  even  less  to  aid  the  fancy,  set  a  circle  of  chairs  to 
personate  a  home,  supplying  the  enclosing  walls  out  of  "  the  stuff 
that  dreams  are  made  of,"  and  pretending  to  go  through  the  daily 
routine  of  significant  nothings  which  to  their  minds  constitute  home. 
The  little  girl  takes  small  pleasure  with  her  dolls  till  she  can  estab- 
lish them  in  something  that  seems  like  a  domestic  state,  and  have 


THE    HOUSEHOLD.  21 

dressing  and  undressing,  going  to  bed  and  getting  up,  sitting  on 
sofas,  entertaining  company,  and  handing  tea.  We  have  seen 
children  in  the  country  that  would  make  a  drawing-room  out  of  an 
old  decayed  stump,  hanging  the  little  hollows  with  mosses  for  cur- 
tains ;  placing  bits  of  broken  china  for  ornaments  and  table  furniture  ; 
and  pretty  little  piles  of  red  leaves  or  flowers  for  fires,  with  thimbles 
ingeniously  hung  on  threads,  suspended  over  the  mock  blaze  with 
mock  dinners  in  them.  The  talk  that  accompanied  all  this  was 
household  talk : — 

Human  nature's  daily  food — 

Transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles  ; 

a  very  reflex  of  the  home  scenes.  It  is  for  this  that  a  family  of  dolls 
should  always  be  allowed  an  important  place  in  the  nursery ;  not 
wax  dolls  that  must  be  laid  away,  and  only  taken  out  to  have  their 
eyes  pulled  open  and  shut  by  means  of  a  string,  like  nothing  on  earth 
or  under  the  earth ;  but  good,  serviceable  babies,  that  can  be  dressed 
and  undressed,  have  their  faces  washed  occasionally,  and  even  be 
whipped,  when  the  little  mamma  is  in  the  mood  for  domestic  dis- 
cipline. The  fashion  of  sending  children  to  school  at  a  very  early 
age  shortens  th«  doll  period  too  much  for  our  ideas  ;  we  would  pro- 
long it  almost  indefinitely,  for  the  sake  of  the  home  element.  Girls 
cannot  have  the  details  of  domestic  life  too  firmly  fixed  in  their 
minds.  We  cannot  help  feeling  a  pity,  not  wholly  untinged  with 
contempt,  when  we  hear  young  ladies  publishing  their  total  igno- 
rance of  household  minutiae.  They  seem  to  us  shorn  of  one  of  the 
modest  glories  of  womanhood.  If  we  were  entrusted  with  the 
making  up  of  a  bride's  trousseau,  we  should  be  sure  to  put  in  a 
couple  of  real  (not  make-believe)  aprons,  for  making  cake  and  cus- 
tards in,  even  if  there  were  a  point-lace  veil.  To  us  there  is  no  incon- 


22  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


gruity  in  these  things.  There  is  no  domestic  office,  however  trivial 
or  toilsome,  that  is  not  capable  of  being  exalted  to  some  degree  of 
dignity  by  the  sentiment  or  spirit  in  which  it  is  performed,  as  there 
is  none  which  may  not  be  degraded  by  sordid  thoughts.  Thus, 
*  ordering  a  supper,'  says  Lady  M.  W.  Montague,  and  we  would 
add,  under  certain  imaginable  circumstances,  cooking  one,  '  is  not 
merely  ordering  a  supper,  but  preparing  for  the  refreshment  and 
pleasure  of  those  we  love;'  while  the  rites  of  hospitality  in  their 
most  graceful  and  imposing  form  are  every  day  profaned  by  tho 
mean,  ostentatious,  or  trafficking  spirit  which  prompts  them. 

We  touched  on  authority  as  the  basis  of  household  happiness — 
a  proof  how  antiquated  are  our  notions.  But  if  the  very  mention 
of  authority,  even  in  connection  with  the  training  of  children,  give 
an  air  of  mustiness  to  our  page,  how  shall  we  face  the  reader  of 
to-day,  when  we  avow  that  we  judge  no  family  to  be  truly  and 
rationally  happy,  unless  the  head  of  it  possess  absolute  authority,  in 
such  sense  that  his  known  wish  is  law — his  expressed  will  impera- 
tive. Is  this  an  anti-democratic  sentiment  ?  By  no  means.  The 
ideal  family  supposes  a  head  who  is  himself  under  law,  and  that  of 
the  most  stringent  and  inevitable  kind.  It  supposes  him  to  hold 
and  exercise  authority  under  a  deep  sense  of  duty,  as  being  some- 
thing with  which  God  clothed  him  when  he  made  him  husband  and 
father,  and  which  he  is,  therefore,  on  no  occasion  or  account,  at 
liberty  to  put  off  or  set  aside  as  a  thing^  indifferent.  This  power  is 
necessary  to  the  full  development  and  exercise  of  that  beautiful 
virtue  of  obedience,  without  which  the  human  will  must  struggle  on 
hopelessly  for  ever,  being  forbidden  by  its  very  constitution  to  know 
happiness  on  any  other  terms.  It  is  an  ill  sign  of  the  times,  that 
the  old-fashioned  promise  of  obedience  in  the  marriage  ceremony  is 
now  only  a  theme  for  small  wit.  Those  wise  fathers  who  placed  it 


THE    HOUSEHOLD.  23 


there  knew  the  human  heart  better  than  we  suppose.  They  knew 
that,  as  surely  as  man  and  wife  are  one,  so  surely  do  they  thus 
united  become  a  Cerberus-like  monster,  if  they  retain  more  than  one 
head.  The  old  song  says, 

'  One  of  us  two  must  obey — 
Is  it  man  or  woman  ?  say  !' 

A  house  in  which  this  question  remains  undecided,  is  always  a 
pitiable  spectacle,  for  both  nature  and  religion  are  set  aside  there. 

We  had  not  dared  to  touch  on  this  incendiary  topic  if  we  had 
not  been  sure  of  such  support  as  admits  not  of  gainsaying.  Shak- 
speare's  shrewdness,  his  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  his  high 
ideal  of  woman  as  wife  and  mother,  not  to  speak  of  his  poetic  appre- 
ciation of  the  beauty  of  fitness,  render  his  opinion  peculiarly  valu- 
able on  this  ticklish  point.  Hear  him : — 

{  Thy  husband  is  thy  life,  thy  lord,  thy  keeper, 
Thy  HEAD,  thy  sovereign  ;  one  that  cares  for  thee, 
And  for  thy  maintenance :  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labor  both  by  sea  and  land, 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold, 
While  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe : 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands 
Than  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience— 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt !' 

If  now  we  should  in  turn  read  a  homily  to  this  supreme  head 
(which  is  bound  to  have  ears),  we  might  perhaps  forfeit  all  the 
gratitude  we  suppose  ourselves  to  have  earned  from  him.  We 
should  show  him  such  a  list  of  the  duties  which  true  headship 
imposes,  that  he  would  be  glad  to  be  diminished,  and  perhaps 
change  places  with  the  least  important  of  his  subjects.  The  posses- 
sion of  unquestionable  authority  almost  makes  him  responsible  for 


24  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


the  happiness  of  the  household.  No  sunshine  is  so  cheering  as  the 
countenance  of  a  father  who  is  feared  as  well  as  loved.  A  brow 
clouded  with  care,  a  mind  too  much  absorbed  by  schemes  of  gain  or 
ambition  to  be  able  to  unbend  itself  in_the  domestic  circle,  a  temper 
which  vacillates  between  impatience  under  annoyance,  and  the  deci- 
sion which  puts  an  end  to  it,  a  disposition  to  indulgence  which  has 
no  better  foundation  than  mere  indolence,  and  which  is,  therefore, 
sure  to  be  unequal — these  are  all  forbidden  to  him  whose  right  it  is 
to  rule.  In  short,  unless  he  rule  himself,  he  is  obviously  unfit  to 
rule  anybody  else  ;  so  that,  to  assume  this  high  position  under  law 
and  gospel,  is  to  enter  into  bonds  to  be  good  !  which  appears  to  us  a 
fair  offset  against  the  duty  of  obedience  on  the  other  side. 

One  reason,  certainly,  why  there  is  less  household  feeling  than 
formerly,  is  that  young  married  people,  at  present,  think  it  necessaiy 
to  begin  life  where  their  fathers  left  off — with  a  complete  establish- 
ment, and  not  a  loop-hole  left  for  those  little  plans  of  future  addition 
to  domestic  comforts  or  luxuries  which  give  such  a  pleasant  stimulus 
to  economy,  and  confer  .so  tender  a  value  on  the  things  purchased 
by  means  of  an  especial  self-denial  in  another  quarter.  Charles 
Lamb,  who  was  an  adept  in  these  gentle  philosophies,  said  that  after 
he  had  the  ability  to  buy  a  choice  book  when  he  chose,  the  indul- 
gence had,  somehow,  lost  its  sweetness,  and  brought  nothing  of  the 
relish  that  used  to  attend  a  purchase  after  he  and  Mary  had  been 
looking  and  longing,  and4at  last  only  dared  buy  upon  the  strength 
of  days'  or  weeks'  economizing.  This  is  a  secret  worth  learning  by 
those  who  would  get  the  full  flavor  of  life,  and  make  home  the  centre 
of  a  thousand  delightful  interests  and  memories. 

But  all  this  is  supposing  that  to  please  ourselves,  and  not  the 

world,  is  the  object.     The  world  begs  leave  to  order  matters  more 

'    rationally  for  us.     Scorning  nature's  plan  of  pushing  the  fledgling 


THE    HOUSEHOLD.  95 


from  the  parental  nest  before  liis  wings  are  full  grown,  in  order  that 
he  may  strengthen  and  enjoy  them  the  better  through  the  necessity 
of  effort.  It  demands  at  least  the  appearance  of  independent  matu- 
rity, and  scouts  any  idea  of  growth  in  the  great  matter  of  feathers. 
And,  what  is  worse,  this  regulation  plumage  often  leaves  the  wearers 
chilled  and  uncomfortable,  though  perhaps  unconscious  why.  We 
might  learn  better  notions  as  to  our  debut  from  the  sportsman,  for  he 
knows  that  the  pleasure  is  in  the  chase,  not  the  dinner. 

In  thus  attempting  faintly  to  shadow  forth  the  difference  between 
house  and  home,  we'  have  unavoidably  broached  some  unpopular 
subjects,  and  must  expect  to  be  reckoned  behind  the  age.  But  we 
pray  our  readers  to  remember  that,  in  preferring  the  household 
warmth  and  sacredness  of  simple  times  to  the  less  carefully  impro- 
priated  splendors  of  this,  we  are  but  following — so  far  as  the  ques- 
tion is  an  aesthetic  one,  at  least — the  example  'of  the  artist,  who 
chooses  for  his  canvas  rather  the  sun-stained  Italian  damsel,  with 
her  trim,  yet  fantastic  bodice,  square  head-dress  of  coarse  linerf,  and 
quaint  distaff  and  spindle,  than  the  most  faultlessly  furbelowed 
modern  belle,  though  her  complexion  be  like  blanc-mange,  and  her 
form  like  an  hour-glass.  These  are  matters  of  taste,  and,  perhaps, 
if  we  cannot  quite  agree,  we  may  agree  to  differ. 


•I* 


A  CHAPTER  ON  HOSPITALITY. 

FEW  of  the  good  and  pleasant  things  of  this  world  will  bear 
analyzing.  "We  must  take  them  as  they  are,  or  we  lose  them 
altogether.  Even  our  own  most  fondly-cherished  benevolences — the 
•.hings  whereby  in  our  secret  souls,  we  hope  to  cover  at  least  a  part 
f»t  the  multitude  of  sins — change  color  when  we  apply  the  severe 
tests  with  which  we  are  wont  to  try  the  good  deeds  of  our  neigh- 
bors. It  is  not  well  to  sift  everything  for  the  sake  of  detecting 
<?arthiness ;  yet  the  world  is  so  full  of  adulterations  that  something 
18  necessary  in  self-defence.  We  may  inquire  a  little  into  some  fair- 
leeming  shows,  at  least  to  draw  lessons  for  our  own  practice. 

No  quality  or  habit  is  more  popular,  or  more  naturally  popular, 

than  hospitality.    It  appeals  so  directly  to  the  universal  part  of  us — 

She  poor  wants  of  poor  human  nature,  in  the  first  place,  and  that 

other  want  no  less  urgent,  that  what  contributes  to  the  refreshment 

,)f  the  body  should  be  seasoned  with  love  or  kindness,  or  some  show 

:>f  them.     "We  love  even  the  pretence  so  dearly  that  we  praise  an 

nn — that  abode  of  the  mercenary  demons — in  proportion  as  there 

3  the  outward  semblance  of  this,  though  we  know  it  will  all  be 

put  down  in  the  bill.'     This  may  be  one  reason  why  some  persons 

vho  have  sacrificed  life's  best  blessing — spontaneous,  disinterested 


A    CHAPTER    ON    HOSPITALITY.  21 


affection — to  the  indulgence  of  certain  anti-social  uncongenialities, 
find  their  only  pleasure  in  advancing  age,  in  places  where  the 
appearance,  at  least,  of  '  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends,' 
may  be  purchased  with  money — the  only  means  left  these  unfortu- 
nates. 

Being  popular,  hospitality  is,  of  course,  a  virtue  which  most  peo- 
ple wish  to  practise  in  some  shape,  and  which  many  people  try  to 
practise  at  the  smallest  possible  expense.  We  do  not  mean  expense 
of  money — though  this  is  sometimes  spared  rather  unnecessarily — 
but  of  some  other  things  not  so  cheap  as  money.  Sad  blunders  are 
made — blunders  of  various  kinds ;  some  which  cover  us  with  shame 
upon  reflection ;  some  which  cover  us  with  ridicule  while  we  are 
happily  unconscious ;  some  which  make  enemies  where  we  hoped  to 
have  secured  friends ;  some  through  means  of  which  our  pride 
appears,  while  we  flatter  ourselves  that  we  are  conferring  a  highly 
appreciated  honor  upon  our  guests.  In  primitive  conditions  of  life, 
where  the  daily  wants  become  especially  prominent,  from  the  degree 
of  uncertainty  which  exists  as  to  whether  they  will  be  satisfied  and 
how, — hospitality  is  often  impulsive  and  sincere.  Sympathy  is  neces- 
sarily strong  in  such  cases.  It  is  in  highly  civilized  and  artificial 
life  that  hospitality  becomes  an  art,  to  be  studied  like  other  fine  arts, 
or  neglected  and  contemned  through  pride  and  inveterate  self- 
indulgence.  Poole — Paul  Pry  Poole — has  an  amusing  sketch,  '  A 
Christmas  Visit  to  Dribble  Hall,'  an  extract  from  which,  hi  the 
'Living  Age,'  gave  rise  to  this  homiiy,  by  calling  up  to  remem- 
brance certain  amusing  passages  in  our  own  experience,  which  set 
us  upon  theorizing  a  little  in  the  matter.  '  Squire  Dribble'  is  a 
person  who  chooses  to  invite  people  to  his  house,  and  when  they  are 
there  and  fairly  in  his  power,  takes  particular  care  to  avoid  perceiv- 
ing their  wants,  and  especially  cannot  be  made  to  understand  that 


28  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 

their  habits  may  not  be  precisely  similar  to  his  own.  Two  gentle- 
men arrive  at  his  country-house  too  late  for  dinner ;  he  regrets  that 
they  did  not  come  sooner,  but  promises  to  hurry  supper  by  half  an 
hour.  On  their  hinting  pretty  broadly  that  so  considerable  a  delay 
will  be  inconvenient  after  a  long  drive,  he  offers  a  slice  of  '  some- 
thing cold'  with  tea.  In  the  morning  he  insists  upon  their  rising  at 
his  hour,  and  allows  them  to  dress  in  the  bitter  cold  without  fire, 
and  so  come  down  blue  and  shivering  to  the  breakfast-table,  where 
the  eggs  are  counted  out  and  the  newspaper  clutched  by  the  squire, 
who  declares  he  would  not  give  a  farthing  for  the  paper  unless  he 
sees  the  first  of  it. 

This  is  no  fancy  sketch — we  are  convinced  of  it.  We  have  seen 
American  Dribbles  who  occasionally  tried  to  be  hospitable  just  in 
the  squire's  manner.  In  houses  where  all  below  stairs  was  costly 
and  luxurious,  we  have  seen  the  guest-chamber  unfurnished  even 
with  the  requisite  amount  of  chairs  and  tables ;  no  attendance  of  a 
servant  offered,  and  no  notice  given  of  the  time  for  rising,  until  the 
bell  rang  for  the  early  breakfast  which  was  then  on  the  table.  We 
have  seen  a  lady  who  had  visits  and  shopping  on  her  hands,  suffered 
to  sit  still,  when  her  time  was  very  limited,  because  the  walking  was 
too  bad  for  her  to  venture  out  on  foot,  and  delicacy  prevented  her 
sending  for  a  carnage  while  there  was  one  quite  at  liberty, 
though  not  offered.  In  this  matter  of  carriages  particularly,  a 
'  Dribble'  hospitality  is  but  too  common ;  for  again  and  again  have 
we  seen  young  ladies  who  were  visiting  where  a  coach  was  kept, 
obliged  to  walk  home  after  evening  parties — attended  by  a  servant 
or  by  some  woful  beau — a  mile  or  two  in  the  cold,  because,  although 
no  carriage  was  sent,  it  was  well  understood  that  the  family  pride 
forbade  any  inmate  from  using  a  hired  one. 

To  be  l  treated  like  one  of  the  family'-  is  sometimes  very  agree- 


A    CHAPTER    ON    HOSPITALi'lT. 


able,  but  this  may  be  earned  too  far.  We  once  knew  a  lady  so 
candid  as  to  protest  agamst  this  mark  of  affection.  She  declared 
that  when  she  visited,  it  made  part  of  her  pleasure  to  be  treated 
like  company.  Guests  differ  so  much  on  this  point  that  one  must 
have  unusual  tact  if,  in  entertaining  much,  an  occasional  error  be 
not  committed.  Some  are  so  painfully  anxious  to  avoid  giving 
trouble  that  an  additional  dish  makes  them  miserable,  quite  forget- 
ting that  with  .  many  a  good,  kind-hearted  entertainer,  this  very 
trouble  is  a  pleasure.  Some  again  find  their  own  habits  so  impe- 
rious that  they  play  '  Dribble'  in  other  people's  houses,  putting 
everybody  out  as  to  time,  place  and  circumstance,  without  a  misgiv- 
ing. A  noted  lady  traveling  in  this  country  some  years  ago, 
required  her  bottle  of  Champagne  every  night  on  going  to  bed;  and 
that  in  the  soberest  of  eastern  families.  This,  too,  was  only  an 
item  in  the  list  of  her  rather  onerous  inamissibles.  We  have  heard 
morfe  than  one  anecdote  of  popular  clergymen,  who,  during  occa- 
sional visits  to  their  greatest  admirers,  have  construed  the  guest-right 
so  rigorously  as  to  cause  the  entire  household  to  heave  a  simulta- 
neous sigh  of  relief  at  their  departure. 

Conscientious  people,  whose  habits  are  very  strict,  and  who  sin- 
cerely believe  certain  practices  and  certain  articles  of  diet  to  be 
highly  deleterious,  are  sometimes  cruelly  divided  between  the  desire 
to  make  their  guests'  time  pass  agreeably  and  to  entertain  them 
with  the  best  the  house  affords,  and  the  fear  of  contributing  to  evil 
habits  or  offering  what  is  injurious  to  health.  Since  the  temperance 
reformation,  many  persons  have  learned  to  think  every  form  of  spirit- 
uous liquors  so  injurious  that  they  dare  not  set  anything  of  the  kind 
before  their  friends  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  old  ideas  of  gener- 
ous conviviality  and  hearty  welcome  attached  to  this  form  of  refresh- 
ment are  so  potent,  that  they  feel  a  species  of  regret — perhaps,  also, 


30 


THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


of  false  shame — which  makes  an  adherence  to  principle  in  this  par- 
ticular extremely  difficult.  Others,  on  the  contrary,  after  all  that 
has  been  said  and  written  on  the  subject,  seem  still  to  fancy  that 
they  show  their  hospitality  by  pressing  the  guest  to  drink  whether 
he  will  or  not ;  and  even  in  a  case  where  it  was  well  known  that  the 
person  so  pressed  had  been  saved  on  the  brink  of  ruin  only  by  the 
resolution  not  to  touch  even  a  single  glass,  we  have  seen  a  lady 
tempt  and  urge  the  unfortunate  visitor,  until  she  looked  to  us  like 
some  fell  Moanad  luring  a  hapless  mortal  to  destruction. 

Even  in  the  matter  of  tea  and  coffee,  some  people  have  a  con- 
science, and  offer  with  reluctance  to  their  friends  what  seems  to  them 
premature  old  age,  depression  of  spirits,  paralysis  and  early  death. 
Others  again  are  so  over-kind  that  they  must  make  your  coffee 
strong  enough  to  be  sour  and  your  tea  to  be  bitter,  reminding  one 
of  the  stoiy  of  the  good  old  Jersey  lady  who  entertained  General 
Washington  during  the  time  of  the  war,  when  molasses  was  the 
usual  sweetener. 

4  Not  quite  so  sweet,  ma'am,  if  you  please,'  said  the  courteous 
great  man,  when  he  handed  his  tea-cup  to  be  filled  a  second  time. 

*  Oh,  dear !'  said  the  hospitable  dame,  putting  in  rather  an  extra 
share  of  the  precious  article,  *  if  it  was  all  molasses  it  wouldn't  be 
too  good  for  General  Washington  1' 

Pinching  hospitality  is  bad  enough,  but  ostentatious  hospitality, 
if  possible,  worse.  To  see  in  all  your  host's  pompous  offers,  in  all 
his  sedulous  attentions  and  all  his  unwearied  display  of  resources, 
himself  and  not  you  the  real  object ;  to  feel  that,  while  you  are  gin& 
with  his  oppressive  civilities,  he  considers  himself  laying  you  under 
the  greatest  obligations ;  to  find  ceremonious  observance  taking  the 
place  of  welcome,  and  formality  rendering  ease  impossible — -this  is 
but  too  common  in  this  country  as  well  as  elsewhere  among  those 


A    CHAPTER    ON   HOSPITALITY.  31 

-  - 

who  lack  nothing  of  this  world's  goods  but  the  knowledge  how  to 
enjoy.  A  visit  under  such  circumstances  is  so  odious  that  a  guest 
would  need  to  be  presented  with  a  good  part  of  the  fine  things  he 
sees — according  to  the  practice  of  the  worthy  host  in  the  Persian 
Tales — to  induce  him  to  make  a  second  attempt. 

Sincerity  is  sometimes  severely  tried  in  cases  where  hospitality 
appears  to  demand  one  course,  while  truth  and  nature  cry  out  for  its 
opposite.  To  seem  glad  to  see  a  visitor  when,  from  whatever  cir- 
cumstance, you  wish  he  had  chosen  to  stop  anywhere  else ;  to  be 
obliged  to  press  him  to  stay  when  your  affairs  imperatively  require 
that  you  should  be  left  alone ;  to  feel  constrained  to  be  *  in  spirits ' 
with  a  heavy  heart ;  to  wear  a  hilarious  aspect  when  mirth  is  *  as 
vinegar  to  the  teeth  and  as  smoke  to  the  eyes ;'  that  we  should  ever 
do  or  even  attempt  such  things,  shows  how  deeply  we  feel  the  claims 
of  hospitality.  They  are  done  or  attempted  every  day,  not  through 
self-interest  or  any  such  unworthy  motive,  but  simply  from  the 
instinctive  dread  of  seeming  deficient  in  what  mankind  in  all  ages 
have  agreed  to  consider  a  sacred  duty.  Those  who,  through  morose- 
ness,  pride,  or  parsimony,  decline  these  and  kindred  sacrifices,  are 
universally  denounced  as  selfish  churls  or  haughty  egotists,  and  voted 
inhuman  by  the  general  voice. 

Like  many  other  virtues,  hospitality  is  practised  in  its  perfection 
by  the  poor.  If  the  rich  did  their  share]  how  would  the  woes  of 
this  world  be  lightened  !  how  would  the  diffusive  blessing  irradiato 
a  wider  and  a  wider  circle,  until  the  vast  confines  of  society  would 
bask  in  the  reviving  ray  !  If  every  forlorn  widow  whose  heart  bleeds 
over  the  recollection  of  past  happiness  made  bitter  by  contrast  with 
present  poverty  and  sorrow,  found  a  comfortable  home  in  the  ample 
establishment  of  her  rich  kinsman ;  if  every  young  man  struggling 
for  a  foothold  on  the  slippery  soil  of  life,  were  cheered  and  aided  by 


33  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


the  countenance  of  some  neighbor  whom  fortune  had  endowed  with 
the  power  to  confer  happiness ;  if  the  lovely  girls,  shrinking  and 
delicate,  whom  we  see  every  day  toiling  timidly  for  a  mere  pittance 
to  sustain  frail  life  and  guard  the  sacred  remnant  of  gentility,  were 
taken  by  the  hand,  invited  and  encouraged,  by  ladies  who  pass  them 
by  with  a  cold  nod — but  where  shall  we  stop  in  enumerating  the 
cases  in  which  true,  genial  hospitality,  practised  by  the  rich  ungrudg- 
ingly, without  a  selfish  drawback — in  short,  practised  as  the  poor 
practise  it — would  prove  a  fountain  of  blessedness,  almost  an  anti- 
dote to  half  the  keener  miseries  under  which  society  groans ! 

Yes  :  the  poor — and  children — understand  hospitality  after  the 
pure  model  of  Christ  and  his  apostles.  We  can  cite  two  instances, 
both  true. 

In  the  western  woods,  a  few  years  since,  lived  a  very  indigent 
Irish  family.  Their  log-cabin  scarcely  protected  them  from  the  wea- 
ther, and  the  potato  field  made  but  poor  provision  for  the  numerous 
rosy  cheeks  that  shone  through  the  unstopped  chinks  when  a  stran- 
ger was  passing  by.  Yet  when  another  Irish  family,,  poorer  still, 
and  way-worn  and  travel-soiled,  stopped  at  their  door — ^children, 
household  goods  and  all — they  not  only  received  and  entertained 
them  for  the  night,  but  kept  them  many  days,  sharing  with  this 
family,  as  numerous  as  their  own,  the  one  room  and  loft  which  made 
up  their  poor  dwelling,  and  treating  them,  in  all  respects^  as  if  they 
had  been  invited  guests.  And  the  mother  of  the  same  family,  on 
hearing  of  the  death  of  a  widowed  sister  who  had  lived  in  New  York, 
immediately  set  on  foot  an  inquiry  as  to  the  residence  of  the  chil- 
dren, with  a  view  to  coming  all  the  way  to  the  city  to  take  the 
orphans  home  to  her  own  house  and  bring  them  up  with  her  own 
children.  We  never  heard  whether  the  search  was  successful,  for 
the  circumstance  occurred  about  the  time  we  were  leaving  that  part 


A    CHAPTER    ON   HOSPITALITY.  33 


of  the  country ;  but  that  the  intention  was  sincere,  and  would  be 
carried  into  effect  if  possible,  there  was  no  shadow  of  doubt. 

As  to  children  and  their  sincere,  generous  little  hearts,  we  were 
going  to  say,  that  one  asked  his  mother,  in  all  seriousness,  *  Mamma, 
why  don't  you  ask  the  poor  people  when  you  have  a  party  ?  Doesn't 
it  say  so  in  the  Bible  ?'  A  keen  reproof,  and  unanswerable. 

The  nearest  we  recollect  to  have  observed  to  this  literal  construc- 
tion of  the  sacred  injunction,  among  those  who  may  be  called  the 
rich — in  contradistinction  to  those  whom  we  usually  call  the  poor, 
though  our  kind  friends  were  far  from  being  what  the  world  con- 
si  ders  rich — was  in  the  case  of  a  city  family,  who  lived  well,  and  who 
always  on  Christmas  day,  Thanksgiving,  or  other  festival  time,  when 
a  dinner  more  generous  than  ordinary  smoked  upon  the  board,  took 
care  to  invite  their  homeless  friends, who  lived  somewhat  poorly  or 
uncomfortably — the  widow  from  her  low-priced  boarding  house  ;  the 
young  clerk,  perhaps,  far  from  his  father's  comfortable  fireside  ;  the 
daily  teacher,  whose  only  deficiency  lay  in  the  purse — these  were 
the  guests  cheered  at  this  truly  hospitable  board  ;  and  cheered 
heartily— not  with  cold,  half-reluctant  civility,  but  with  the  warmest 
welcome,  and  the  pleasant  appendix  of  the  long,  merry,  evening 
with  music  and  games,  and  the  frolic  dance  after  the  piano.  We 
would  not  be  understood  to  give  this  as  a  solitary  instance,  but  we 
wish  we  knew  of  many  such. 

The  forms  of  society  are  in  a  high  degree  inimical  to  true  hospi- 
tality. Pride  has  crushed  genuine  social  feeling  out  of  too  many 
hearts,  tmd  the  consequence  is  a  cold  sterility  of  intercourse,  a  soul- 
stifling  ceremoniousness,  a  sleepless  vigilance  for  self,  totally  incom- 
patible with  that  free,  flowing,  genial  intercourse  with  humanity,  so 
nourishing  to  all  the  better  feelings.  The  sacred  love  of  home — 
that  panacea  for  many  of  life's  ilia — suffers  with  the  rest.  Few 
2 


34  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


people  have  homes  now  a  days.  -  The  fine,  cheerful,  every-day  par- 
lor, with  its  table  covered  with  the  implements  of  real  occupation 
and  real  amusement ;  mamma  on  the  sofa,  with  her  needle  ;  grand- 
mamma in  her  great  chair,  knitting;  pussy  winking  at  the  fire 
between  them,  is  gone.  In  its  place  we  have  two  gorgeous  rooms, 
arranged  for  company  but  empty  of  human  life ;  tables  covered 
with  gaudy,  ostentatious  and  useless  articles — a  very  mockery  of 
anything  like  rational  pastime — the  light  of  heaven  as  cautiously 
excluded  as  the  delicious  music  of  free,  childish  voices  ;  every  mem- 
ber of  the  family  wandering  in  forlorn  loneliness,  or  huddled  in 
some  '  back  room'  or  *  basement,'  in  which  are  collected  the  only 
means  of  comfort  left  them  under  this  miserable  arrangement. 
This  is  the  substitute  which  hundreds  of  people  accept  in  place  of 
home !  Shall  we  look  in  such  places  for  hospitality  ?  As 
soon  expect  figs  from  thistles.  Invitations  there  will  be  occasionally, 
doubtless,  for  *  society'  expects  it ;  but  let  a  countiy  cousin  present 
himself,  and  see  whether  he  will  be  put  into  the  state  apartments. 
Let  no  infirm  and  indigent  relative  expect  a  place  under  such  roof. 
Let  not  even  the  humble  individual  who  placed  the  stepping-stone 
which  led  to  that  fortune,  ask  a  share  in  the  abundance  which 
would  never  have  had  a  beginning  but  for  his  timely  aid.  *  We 
have  changed  all  that !' 

But  setting  aside  the  hospitality  which  has  any  reference  to  duty 
or  obligation,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  other  kind — that  which  is 
exercised  for  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  it  brings — is  becoming  more 
and  more  rare  among  us.  The  deadly  strife  of  emulation,  the  mad 
pursuit  of  wealth,  the  suspicion  engendered  by  rivalry,  leave  little 
chance  for  the  spontaneity,  the  abandon,  the  hearty  sympathy  which 
give  the  charm  to  social  meetings  and  make  the  exercise  of  hospi- 
tality one  of  the  highest  pleasures.  We  have  attempted  to  dignify 


A    CHAPTER    ON    HOSPITALITY.  35 


our  simple  republicanism  by  far-away,  melancholy  imitations  of  the 
Old  World  ;  but  the  incongruity  between  these  forms  and  the  true 
spirit  of  our  institutions  is  such,  that  all  we  gain  is  a  bald  empti- 
ness, gilded  over  with  vulgar  show.  Real  dignity,  such  as  that  of 
John  Adams  when  he  lived  among  his  country  neighbors  as  if  he 
had  never  seen  a  court,  we  are  learning  to  despise.  We  persist  in 
making  ourselves  the  laughing-stock  of  really  refined  people,  by  for- 
saking our  true  ground  and  attempting  to  stand  upon  that  which 
shows  our  deficiences  to  the  greatest  disadvantage.  When  shall  we 
learn  that  the  l  spare  feast — a  radish  and  an  egg,'  if  partaken  by  the 
good  and  the  cultivated,  has  a  charm  which  no  expense  can  pur- 
chase ?  When  shall  we  look  at  the  spirit  rather  than  the  semblance 
of  things — when  give  up  the  shadow  for  the  substance  ? 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  VISITING. 

THERE  is  something  wonderfully  primitive  and  simple  in  the  fun- 
damental idea  of  visiting.  You  leave  your  own  place  and  your 
chosen  employments,  your  slipshod  ease  and  privileged  plainness, 
and  sally  forth,  in  special  trim,  with  your  mind  emptied,  as  far  as 
possible,  of  whatever  has  been  engrossing  it,  to  make  a  descent  upon 
the  domicile  of  another,  under  the  idea  that  your  presence  will  give 
him  pleasure,  and,  remotely,  yourself.  Can  anything  denote  more 
amiable  simplicity  ?  or,  according  to  a  certain  favorite  vocabulary, 
can  anything  be  more  intensely  green  ?  What  a  confession  of  the 
need  of  human  sympathy !  What  bonhommie  in  the  conviction  that 
you  will  be  welcome  !  What  reckless  self-committal  in  the  whole 
affair  !  Let  no  one  say  this  is  not  a  good-natured  world,  since  it 
still  keeps  up  a  reverence  for  the  fossil  remains  of  what  was  once  the 
heart  of  its  oyster. 

Not  to  go  back  to  the  creation  (some  proof  of  self-denial,  in  these 
days  of  research,)  what  occasioned  the  first  visit,  probably  ?  Was 
it  the  birth  of  a  baby,  or  a  wish  to  borrow  somewhat  for  the  simple 
householdry,  or  a  cause  of  complaint  about  some  rural  trespass;  a 
desire  to  share  superabundant  grapes  with  a  neighbor  who  abounded 
more  in  pomegranates ;  a  twilight  fancy  for  gossip  about  a  stray  kid, 
ot  a  wound  from  *  the  blindboy's  butt-shaft  P  Was  the  delight  of 


THE  MYSTERY    OF    VISITING.  37 


visiting,  like  the  succulence  of  roast  pig,  discovered  by  chance ;  or 
was  it,  like  the  talk  which  is  its  essence,  an  instinct  2  This  last  we 
particularly  doubt,  from  present  manifestations.  Instincts  do  not 
wear  out ;  they  are  as  fresh  as  hi  the  days  when  visiting  began — but 
where  is  visiting  ? 

A  curious  semblance  of  the  old  rite  now  serves  us,  a  mere  Duessa 
— a  form  of  snow,  impudently  pretending  to  vitality.  We  are  put 
off  with  this  congelation — a  compound  of  formality,  dissimulation, 
weariness,  and  vanity,  which  it  is  not  easy  to  subject  to  any  test 
without  resolving  it  at  once  into  its  unwholesome  elements.  Yet 
why  must  it  be  so  ?  Would  it  require  daring  equal  to  that  which 
dashed  into  the  enchanted  wood  of  Ismeno,  or  that  which  exter- 
minated the  Mamelukes,  to  fall  back  upon  first  principles,  and  let 
inclination  have  something  to  do  with  offering  and  returning  visits  ? 

A  coat  of  mail  is,  strangely  enough,  the  first  requisite  when  we 
have  a  round  of  calls  to  make ;  not  the  '  silver  arms '  of  fair  Clorinda, 
but  the  unlovely,  oyster-like  coat  of  Pride,  the  helmet  of  Indiffer- 
ence, the  breastplate  of  Distrust,  the  barred  visor  of  Self-esteem,  the 
shield  of  '  gentle  Dulness ;'  while  over  all  floats  the  gaudy,  tinsel 
ecarf  of  Fashion.  Whatever  else  be  present  or  lacking,  Pride,  defen- 
sive, if  not  offensive,  must  clothe  us  all  over.  The  eyes  must  be 
guarded,  lest  they  mete  out  too  much  consideration  to  those  who 
bear  no  stamp.  The  neck  must  be  stiffened,  lest  it  bend  beyond 
the  haughty  angle  of  self-reservation  in  the  acknowledgment  of 
civilities.  The  mouth  is  bound  to  keep  its  portcullis  ever  ready  to 
fall  on  a  word  which  implies  unaffected  pleasure  or  surprise.  Each 
motion  must  have  its  motive ;  every  civility  its  well-weighed  return 
in  prospect.  Subjects  of  conversation  must  be  any  but  those  which 
naturally  present  themselves  to  the  mind.  If  a  certain  round  is  not 
prescribed,  we  feel  that  all  beyond  it  is  proscribed.  Oh  !  the  unut- 


88  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


terable  weariness  of  this  worse  than  dumbshow  !     No  wonder  we 
groan  in  spirit  when  there  are  visits  to  be  made ! 

But  some  fair,  innocent  face  looks  up  at  us,  out  of  a  forest  home, 
perhaps,  or  in  a  wide,  unneighbored  prairie,  and  asks  what  all  this 
means.  '  Is  not  a  visit  always  a  delightful  thing — full  of  good 
feeling — the  cheerer  of  solitude — the  lightener  of  labor — the  healer 
of  differences — the  antidote  of  life's  bitterness  ?'  Ah  !  primitive  child ! 
it  is  so,  indeed,  to  you.  The  thought  of  a  visit  makes  your  dear 
little  heart  beat.  If  one  is  offered  or  expected  at  your  father's,  with 
what  cheerful  readiness  do  you  lend  your  aid  to  the  preparations ! 
How  your  winged  feet  skim  along  the  floor,  or  surmount  the  stairs  ; 
your  brain  full  of  ingenious  devices  and  substitutes,  your  slender 
fingers  loaded  with  plates  and  glasses,  and  a  tidy  apron  depending 
from  your  taper  waist!  Thoughts  of  dress  give  you  but  little 
trouble,  for  your  choice  is  limited  to  the  pink  ribbon  and  the  blue 
one.  What  the  company  will  wear  is  of  still  less  moment,  so  they 
only  come  !  It  would  be  hard  to  make  you  believe  that  we  invite 
people  and  then  hope  they  will  not  come !  If  you  omit  anybody, 
it  will  be  the  friend  who  possesses  too  many  acres,  or  he  who  has 
been  sent  to  the  legislature  from  your  district,  lest  dignity  should 
interfere  with  pleasure ;  we,  on  the  contrary,  think  first  of  the  mag- 
nates, even  though  we  know  that  the  gloom  of  their  grandeur  will 
overshadow  the  mirth  of  everybody  else,  and  prove  a  wet  blanket 
to  the  social  fire:  You  will,  perhaps,  be  surprised  to  learn  that  we 
keep  a  debtor  and  creditor  account  of  visits,  and  talk  of  owing  a 
call,  or  owing  an  invitation,  as  your  father  does  of  owing  a  hundred 
dollars  at  the  store,  for  value  received.  When  we  have  made  a 
visit  and  are  about  departing,  we  invite  a  return,  in  the  choicest 
terms  of  affectionate,  or  at  least  cordial  interest ;  but  if  our  friend  is 
new  enough  to  take  us  at  our  word,  and  pay  the  debt  too  soon,  we 


THE    MYSTERY    OF   VISITING.  3% 


complain,  and  say,  '  Oh  dear !  there's  another  call  to  make !'  Our 
whole  system  of  morning  visiting  will  amuse  you,  doubtless ;  we 
v*  -1  just  give  you  a  sketch  of  it. 

A  hint  has  already  been  dropt  as  to  the  grudging  spirit  of  the 
thing,  how  we  give  as  little  as  we  can,  and  get  all  possible  credit 
for  it ;  and  this  is  the  way  we  do  it.  Having  let  the  accounts 
against  us  become  as  numerous  as  is  prudent,  we  draw  up  a  list  of 
our  creditors,  carefully  districted  as  to  residences,  so  as  not  to  make 
more  cross-journeys  than  are  necessary  in  going  the  rounds.  Then 
we  array  ourselves  with  all  suitable  splendor  (this  is  a  main  point, 
and  we  often  defer  a  call  upon  dear  friends  for  weeks,  waiting  till 
the  arrivals  from  Paris  shall  allow  us  to  endue  a  new  bonnet  or 
mantilla),  and,  getting  into  a  carriage,  card-case  in  hand,  give  our 
list,  corrected  more  anxiously  than  a  price-current,  into  the  keeping 
of  the  coachman,  with  directions  to  drive  as  fast  as  dignity  will 
allow,  in  order  that  we  may  do  as  much  execution  as  possible  with 
the  stone  thus  carefully  smoothed.  Arrived  at  the  first  house  (which 
is  always  the  one  farthest  off,  for  economy  of  time),  we  stop — the 
servant  inquires  for  the  lady  for  whom  our  civility  is  intended,  while 
we  take  out  a  card  and  hold  it  prominent  on  the  carnage  door,  that 
not  a  moment  may  be  lost  in  case  a  card  is  needed.  '  Not  at 
home  ¥  Ah  then,  with  what  pleased  alacrity  we  commit  the  scrap 
of  pasteboard  to  John,  after  having  turned  down  a  corner  for  each 
lady,  if  there  are  several  in  this  kind  and  propitious  house.  But  if 
the  answer  is, '  At  home,'  all  wears  a  different  aspect.  The  card 
slips  sadly  back  again  into  its  silver  citadel ;  we  sigh,  and  say  *  Oh 
dear  1'  if  nothing  worse — and  then,  alighting  with  measured  step, 
enter  the  drawing-room,  all  smiles,  and  with  polite  words  ready  on 
onr  lips.  Ten  minutes  of  the  weather — the  walking — the  opera — 
family  illnesses — on  dits,  and  a  little  spice  of  scandal,  or  at  least  a 


*0  THE    EVENING    BOOK.   ' 

shrug  and  a  meaning  look  or  two — and  the  duty  is  done.  We 
enter  the  carriage  again — urge  the  coachman  to  new  speed,  and  go 
through  the  same  ceremonies,  hopes,  regrets,  and  tittle-tattle,  till 
dinfter-time,  and  then  bless  our  stars  that  we  have  been  able  to 
make  twenty  calls — '  so  many  people  were  out !' 

But  this  is  only  one  side  of  the  question.  How  is  it  with  us  when 
we  receive  visits  ?  We  enter  here  upon  a  deep  mystery.  Dear 
simple  child  of  the  woods  and  fields,  did  you  ever  hear  of  reception- 
days  ?  If  not,  let  us  enlighten  you  a  little. 

The  original  idea  of  a  reception-day  is  a  charmingly  social  and 
friendly  one.  It  is  that  the  many  engagements  of  city  life,  and  the 
distances  which  must  be  traversed  in  order  to  visit  several  friends  in 
one  day,  make  it  peculiarly  desirable  to  know  when  we  are  sure  to 
find  each  at  home.  It  may  seem  strange  that  this  idea  should  have 
occurred  to  people  who  are  confessedly  glad  of  the  opportunity  to 
leave  a  card,  because  it  allows  them  time  to  despatch  a  greater 
number  of  visits  at  one  round  ;  but  so  it  is.  The  very  enormity  of 
our  practice  sometimes  leads  to  spasmodic  efforts  at  reform.  Ap- 
pointing a  reception-day  is,  therefore,  or,  rather,  we  should  say,  was 
intended  to  make  morning-calls  something  besides  a  mere  form.  To 
say  you  will  always  be  at  home  on  such  a  day,  is  to  insure  to  your 
friends  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you ;  and  what  a  charming  conversa- 
tional circle  might  thus  be  gathered,  without  ceremony  or  restraint ! 
No  wonder  the  fashion  took  at  once.  But  what  has  fashion  made 
of  this  plan,  so  simple,  so  rational,  so  in  accordance  with  the  best 
uses  of  visiting  ?  Something  as  vapid  and  senseless  as  a  court- 
drawing-room,  or  the  eternal  bowings  and  compliments  of  the 
Chinese !  You,  artless -blossom  of.  the  prairies,  or  belle  of  somo 
rural  city  a  thousand  miles  inland,  should  thank  us  for  putting  you 
on  your  guard  against  Utopian  constructions  of  our  social  canons. 


THE. MYSTERY    OF    VISITJtfG  41 


When  you  come  to  town  with  your  good  father,  and  find  that  the 
lady  of  one  of  his  city  correspondents  sets  apart  one  morning  of 
every  week  for  the  reception  of  her  friends,  do  not  imagine  her  to 
be  necessarily  a  'good  soul,'  whcT hates  to  disappoint  those  who  call 
on  her,  and  therefore  simply  omits  going  out  on  that  day  lest  she 
should  miss  them.  You  will  find  her  enshrined  in  all  that  is  grand 
and  costly ;  her  door  guarded  by  servants,  whose  formal  ushering 
will  kill  within  you  all  hope  of  unaffected  and  kindly  intercourse  ; 
her  parlors  glittering  with  all  she.  can  possibly  accumulate  that  is 
recherche  (that  is  a  favorite  word  of  hers),  aud  her  own  person  ar- 
rayed with. all  the  solicitude  of  splendor  that  morning  dress  allows, 
and  sometimes  something  more.  She  will  receive  you  with  practised 
grace,  and  beg  you  to  be  seated,  perhaps  seat  herself  by  you  and 
inquire  after  your  health.  Then  a  tall  grave  servant  will  hand  you, 
on  a  silver  salver,  a  cup  of  chocolate,  or  some  other  permissible  re- 
freshment, while  your  hostess  glides  over  the  carpet  to  show  to  a 
new  guest  or  group  the  identical  civilities  of  which  you  have  just  had 
the  benefit.  A  lady  sits  at  your  right  hand,  as  silent  as  yourself ; 
but  you  must  neither  hope  for  an  introduction,  nor  dare  to  address 
her  without  one,  since  both  these  things  are  forbidden  by  our  code. 
Another  sits  at  your  left,  looking  wistfully  at  the  fire,  or  at  the  stand 
of  greenhouse  plants,  or,  still  more  likely,  at  the  splendid  French 
clock,  but  not  speaking  a  word ;  for  she,  too,  has  not  the  happiness 
of  knowing  anybody  who  chances  to  sit  near  her. 

Presently  she  rises  ;  the  hostess  hastens  towards  her,  presses  her 
hand  with  great  affection,  and  begs  to  see  her  often.  She  falls  into 
\he  custody  of  the  footman  at  the  parlor  door,  is  by  him  committed 
to  his  double  at  the  hall  door,  and  then  trips  lightly  down  the  steps 
to  her  carriage,  to  enact  the  same  farce  at  the  next  house  where 
there  may  be  a  reception  on  the  same  day.  You  look  at  the  clock 


42  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


too — rise — are  smiled  upon,  and  begged  to  come  again ;  and  pass- 
ing through  the  same  tunnel  of  footmen,  reach  the  door  and  the 
street,  with  time  and  opportunity  to  muse  on  the  mystery  of 
visiting. 

Now  you  are  not  to  go  away  with  the  idea  that  those  who  reduce 
visiting  to  this  frigid  system,  are,  of  necesssity,  heartless  people. 
That  would  be  very  unjust.  They  are  often  people  of  very  good  hearts 
indeed  ;  but  they  have  somehow  allowed  their  notions  of  social  inter- 
course to  become  sophisticated,  so  that  visiting  has  ceased  with  them 
to  be  even  a  symbol  of  friendly  feeling,  and  they  look  upon  it  as 
merely  a  mode  of  exhibiting  wealth,  style,  and  desirable  acquain- 
tances ;  an  assertion,  as  it  were,  of  social  position.  Then  they  will 
tell  you  of  the  great  "  waste  of  time"  incurred  by  the  old  system 
of  receiving  morning  calls,  and  how  much  better  it  is  to  give  up 
one  day  to  it  than  every  day ;  though,  by  the  way,  they  never  did 
scruple  to  be  l  engaged'  or  '  out'  when  visits  were  not  desirable. 
Another  thing  is — but  this,  perhaps,  they  will  not  tell  you, — that 
the  present  is  an  excellent  way  of  refining  one's  circle ;  for  as  the 
footman  has  strict  orders  not  to  admit  any  one,  or  even  receive  a 
card,  on  other  than  the  regular  days,  all  those  who  are  enough 
behind  the  age  not  to  be  aware  of  this,  are  gradually  dropt,  their 
visits  passing  for  nothing,  and  remaining  unreturned.  So  fades 
away  the  momentary  dream  of  sociability  with  which  some  simple- 
hearted  people  pleased  themselves  when  they  first  heard  of  reception- 
days. 

But  morning  calls  are  not  the  only  form  of  our  social  intercourse. 
We  do  not  forget  the  claims  of  '  peaceful  evening.7  You  have  read 
Cowper,  my  dear  young  friend  ? 

'  Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 


THE    MYSTERY    OF   VISITING.  43 


And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steaming  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer,  but  not  inebriate,'  etc.,  etc. 

And  you  have  been  at  tea-parties  too,  where,  besides  the  excel- 
lent tea  and  coffee  and  cake,  and  warm  biscuits  and  sliced  tongue, 
there  was  wealth  of  good-humored  chat,  and  if  not  wit,  plenty  of 
laughter,  as  the  hours  wore  on  towards  ten  o'clock,  when  cloaks  and 
hoods  were  brought,  and  the  gentlemen  asked  to  be  allowed  to  see 
the  ladies  home  ;  and,  after  a  brisk  walk,  everybody  was  in  bed  at 
eleven  o'clock,  and  felt  not  the  worse  but  the  better  next  morning. 
Well  I  we  have  evening  parties,  too  !  A  little  different,  however. 

The  simple  people  among  whom  you  have  been  living  really 
enjoyed  these  parties.  Those  who  gave  them,  and  those  who  went 
to  them,  had  social  pleasure  as  their  object.  The  little  bustle,  or, 
perhaps,  labor  of  preparation  was  just  enough  to  mark  the  occasion 
pleasantly.  People  came  together  in  good  humor  with  themselves 
and  with  each  other.  There  may  have  been  some  little  scandal 
talked  over  the  tea  when  it  was  too  strong — but,  on  the  whole,  there 
was  a  friendly  result,  and  everybody  concerned  would  have  felt  it  a 
loss  to  be  deprived  of  such  meetings.  The  very  borrowings  of  cer- 
tain articles  of  which  no  ordinary,  moderate  household  is  expected 
to  have  enough  for  extraordinary  occasions,  promoted  good  neigh- 
borhood and  sociability,  and  the  deficiencies  sometimes  observable, 
were  in  some  sense  an  antidote  to  pride. 

Now  all  this  sounds  like  a  sentimental  Utopian,  if  not^shabby 
romance  to  us,  so  far  have  we  departed  from  such  primitiveness.  To 
begin,  we  ah*  say  we  hate  parties.  When  we  go  to  them  we  groan 
and  declare  them  stupid,  and  when  we  give  them  we  say  still  worse 
things.  "VMien  we  are  about  to  give,  there  is  a  close  calculation 
either  as  to  the  cheapest  way,  or  as  to  the  most  recherche  without 


44  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


regard  to  expense.     Of  course  these  two  views  apply  to  different 
extent  of  means,  and  the  former  is  the  more  frequent.     Where 
money  is  no  object,  the  anxiety  is  to  do  something  that  nobody  else 
can  do ;  whether  hi  splendor  of  decorations  or  costliness  of  supper. 
If  Mrs.  A.  had  a  thousand  dollars  worth  of  flowers  in  her  rooms, 
Mrs.  B.  will  strain  every  nerve  to  have  twice  or  three  times  as  many, 
though  all  the  green-houses  within  ten  miles  of  the  city  must  be 
stripped  to  obtain  them.     If  Mrs.  C.  bought  all  the  game  in  market 
for  her  supper,  Mrs.  D.'s  anxiety  is  to  send  to  the  prairies  for  hers, — 
and  so  in  other  matters.     Mrs.  E.  had  the  prima  donna  to  sing  at 
her  soiree,  and  Mrs.  F.  at  once  engages  the  whole  opera  troupe. 
This  is  th$  principle,  and  its  manifestations  are  infinite.     Butj  per- 
haps, these  freaks  are  characteristic  of  circles  into  which  wondering 
eyes  like  yours  are  never  likely  to  penetrate,  so  we  will  say  some- 
thing of  the  other  class  of  .party-givers,  those  who  feel  themselves 
under  a  sort  of  necessity  to  invite  a  great  many  people  for  whom 
they  care  nothing,  merely  because  these  people  have  before  invited 
them.     Obligations  of  this  sort  are  of  so  exceedingly  complicated  a 
character,  that  none  but  a  metaphysician  could  be  expected  fully  to 
unravel  them.     The  idea  of  paying  one  invitation  by  another  is  the 
main  one,  and  whether  the  invited  choose  to  come  or  not,  is  very 
little   to  the   purpose.     The   invitation  discharges  the   debt,    and 
places  the  party  giver  in  the  position  of  a  creditor,  necessitating  of 
course,  another  party,  and  so  on,  in  endless  series.     It  is  to  be 
observed  in  passing,  that  both  debtor  and  creditor  in  this  shifting- 
scale  believe  themselves   '  discharging   a   duty  they  owe   society.' 
This  is  another  opportunity  of  getting  rid  of  undesirable  acquain- 
tances, since  to  leave  one  to  whom  we  'owe'  an  invitation  out  of*a 
general  party  is   equivalent  to  a  final  dismissal.     This  being  tha 
case,  it  is,  of  course,  highly  necessary  to  see  that  everbody  is  asked, 


THE    MYSfERY    OF    VISITING.  45 


imd  only  those  omitted  whom  it  .is  desirable  to  ignore,  and  for  this 
purpose,  every  lady  must  keep  a  *  visiting  list.'  It  is  on  these  occa- 
sions that  we  take  care  to  invite  our  country  friends,  especially  if 
we  have  stayed  a  few  weeks  at  their  houses  during  the  preceding 
summer. 

The  next  question  is  as  to  the  entertainment ;  and  this  would  be  a 
still  more  anxious  affair  than  it  is,  if  its  form  and  extent  were  not  in 
good  measure  prescribed  by  fashion.  There  are  certainly  must-haves 
and  may-haves,  here  as  elsewhere  ;  but  the  liberty  of  choice  is  not  very 
extensive.  -If  you  do  not  provide  the  must-haves  you  are  '  mean,'  of 
course ;  but  it  is  only  by  adding  the  may-haves  that  you  can  hope 
to  be  elegant.  The  cost  may  seem  formidable,  perhaps ;  but  it  has 
been  made  matter  of  accurate  computation,  that  one  large  party, 
even  though  it  be  a  handsome  one,  costs  less  in  the  end  than  the 
h?bit  of  hospitality  for  which  it  is  the  substitute ;  so  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  flinch.  We  must  do  our  *  duty  to  society,'  and  this  is  the 
cheapest  way. 

Do  you  ask  me  if  there  are  among  us  no  old-fashioned  people, 
who  continue  to  invite  their  friends  because  they  love  them  and 
wish  to  see  them,  offering  only  such  moderate  entertainment  as  may 
serve  to  promote  social  feeling  ?  Yes,  indeed  ?  there  are  even  some 
who  will  ask  you  to  dine,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  your  company, 
and  with  no  intention  to  astonish  you  or  excite  your  envy  !  We 
boast  that  it  was  a  lady  of  our  city,  who  declined  giving  a  large 
party  to  '  return  invitations,'  saying  she  did  not  wish  *  to  exhaust  in 
the  prodigality  of  a  night,  the  hospitality  of  a  year.7  Ten  such 
could  be  found  among  us,  we  may  hope  ;  leaven  enough,  perhaps, 
to  work  out,  in 'time,  a  change  for  the  better  in  our  social  state. 
Conversation  is  by  no  means  despised,  in  some  circles,  even  though 
it  turn  on  subjects  of  moral  or  literary  interest ;  and  parlor*  music, 


46  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


which  aims  at  no  eclat,  is  to  be  heard  sometimes  among  people  who 
could  afford  to  hire  opera  singers. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  wholesale  method  of  *  doing  up* 
our  social  obligations  is  a  convenient  one  on  some  accounts.  It  pre- 
vents jealousy,  by  placing  all  alike  on  a  footing  of  perfect  indifference. 
The  apportionment  of  civilities  is  a  very  delicate  matter.  Really, 
in  some  cases,  it  is  walking  among  eggs  to  invite  only  a  few  of  your 
friends  at  a  time.  If  you  choose  them  as  being  acquainted  with 
each  other,  somebody  will  be  offended  at  being  included  or  excluded. 
If  intellectual  sympathy  be  your  touchstone,  for  every  one  gratified 
there  will  be  two  miffed,  and  so  on  with  all  other  classifications. 
Attempts  have  been  made  to  obviate  this  difficulty.  One  lady  pro- 
posed to  consider  as  congenial  all  those  who  keep  carriages,  but  the 
circle  proved  so  very  dull,  that  she  was  obliged  to  exert  her  inge- 
nuity for  another  common  quality  by  which  to  arrange  her  soirees. 
Another  tried  the  experiment  of  inviting  her  fashionable  friends  at 
one  time,  her  husband's  political  friends  at  another,  and  the  reli- 
gious friends  whom  both  were  desirous  to(  propitiate,  at  another ;  but 
her  task  was  as  perplexing  as  that  of  the  man  who  had  the  fox,  the 
goose,  and  the  bag  of  oats  to  ferry  over  the  river  in  a  boat  that 
would  hold  but  one  of  them  at  a  time.  So  large  parties  have  it ; 
and  in  the  murky  shadow  of  this  Simulacrum  of  sociability  we  are 
likely  to  freeze  for  some  time  to  come ;  certainly  until  all  purely 
mercantile  calculation  is  banished  from  our  civilities. 

It  is  with  visiting  as  with  travelling ;  those  who  would  make  the 
most  of  either  must  begin  by  learning  to  renounce.  We  cannot 
do  everything ;  and  to  enjoy  our  friends  we  must  curtail  our 
acquaintances.  When  we  would  kindle  a  fire,  we  do  not  begin  by 
scattering  the  coals  in  every  direction ;  so  neither  should  we  attempt 
to  promote  social  feeling  by  making  formal  calls  one  or  twice  a 


THE    MYSTERY    OF    VISITING.  47 


year.  If  we  give  offence,  so  be  it ;  it  shows  that  there  was  nothing 
to  lose.  If  we  find  ourselves  left  out  of  what  is  called  fashionable 
society,  let  us  bless  our  stars,  and  devote  the  time  thus  saved  to 
something  that  we  really  like.  What  a  gain  there  would  be  if  any- 
thing drove  us  to  living  for  ourselves  and  not  for  other  people ;  for 
our  friends,  rather  than  for  a  world,  which,  after  all  our  sacrifices, 
cares  not  a  pin  about  us ! 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  DRESS, 

•A  YEAR  or  two  ago,  Blackwood,  that •'  nest  of  spicery,'  gave  us  a 
series  of  brilliant  papers  on  the  -^Esthetics  of  Dress,  replete  with  such 
valuable  practical  hints,  that  the  bon  ton  should  have  given  the 
writer  a  statue,  draped  on  his  own  principles  of  taste  and  fitness ; 
not  classic,  perhaps,  but  deserving  to  become  so.  We  considered 
him,  at  the  time,  a  public  benefactor,  and  hoped  to  see  the  truths 
he  rendered  so  obvious  make  their  due  impression  on  our  beaux  and 
belles,  *  well-preserved'  bachelors,  and  ladies  of  a  certain  age ;  guard- 
ing them  against  some  of  the  nameless  but  hideous  errors  which 
disguise  beauty  and  render  ugliness  conspicuous.  The  application 
has  not  been  as  general  as  we  could  have  desired.  We  still  see 
triple  skirts  on  squab-figures ;  blush-roses  on  three-score ;  scarlet 
flowers  neighboring  flaxen  ringlets,  and  huge  shawls  enveloping  forms 
which,  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  would  remind  one 
but  too  surely  of  Salmagundi's  comparison  of  '-a  bed  and  bolster, 
rolled  up  in  a  suit  of  curtains.'  If  we  had  our  will,  those  papers 
would  be  repubh'shed  in  pamphlet  form,  and  scattered  all  over  the 
land,  that  our  nascent  gentility  might  be  trained  in  the  growing. 
Dress  may  still  be  considered  in  a  state  of  nature  with  us.  Not 
that  it  is  original  or  inventive  ;  far  from  these !  but  running  wild,  in 
the  direction  of  expense ;  as  the  pumpkin- vine  darts  out  its  dispro- 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF   DRESS.  49 


portioned  arms  towards  the  brook,  which  will  do  nothing  for  it,  after 
all,  since  it  cannot  nourish  its  roots. 

This  beneficent  Black  woodian  having  said  all  that  could  be.  said  of 
dress  as  a  concern  of  the  eyes  merely,  we  propose,  in  our  sober  way, 
to  take  up  the  subject  from  a  somewhat  graver  side,  considering- 
dress  as  having  a  meaning,  or  as  being  an  expression  of  sentiment. 
Not  to  be  frightfully  serious,  is  all  we  can  promise  our  youthful 
readers.  If  they  should  feel  a  tap  now  and  then,  we  must  say  to 
them  as  the  conscientious  Quaker  did  to  his  wife  when  he  was 
administering  domestic  discipline, — '  Why  does  thee  cry  so  ?  It's 
all  for  thy  own  good !" 

Dress  may  serve  as  either  a  grave  or  a  gay  subject.  For  those 
who  relish  satire,  what  can  afford  fairer  game  than  the  blunders  of 
some  unfortunate  people,  who,  having  come  into  possession  of  plenty 
of  money,  are  more  guided  by  costliness  than  taste  in  their  choice  of 
costume  ?  "What  overdoing  and  overlaying,  what  contradiction  and 
monotony,  what  frippery  and  furbelow,  marks  the  trappings  of  such  ? 
No  militia  adjutant  on  parade,  no  pet  fire-engine  in  a  procession,  was 
ever  worse  bedizened.  Who  has  not  seen  a  lady  get  into  a  dusty 
omnibus  with  her  pearl-colored  skirts  fluttering  with  flounces,  her 
crape  bonnet  tremulous  with  flowers,  her  white  shawl  lustrous  with 
embroidery,  her  wrists  manacled  with  golden  fetters  and  dangling 
lockets  ;  her  laces,  her  delicate  gloves,  her  silver  card-case,  her  glit- 
tering chains  all  point-de-vice — and — all  shocking  !  We  pity  where 
we  are  expected  to  admire — that  is,  we  call  by  the  amiable  name  of 
pity  a  feeling  which,  more  severely  construed,  would  be  found  to 
border  closely  on  contempt.  Each  portion  of  the  tout  ensemble  is 
beautiful ;  perhaps  even  the  whole  might  not  be  offensive  for  some 
particular  and  private  display  ;  but  for  an  omnibus !  There  is  some- 
thing profane  in  the  public  eye,  and  therefore  the  outdoor  costume 


50  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


of  a  well-bred  woman  should  never  be  such  as  to  attract  and  fix  it, 
at  least  in  particulars,  or  by  reason  of  costliness  or  show. 

Moralizers  sometimes  say  we  should  not  judge  of  people  by  their 
dress.  But  we  may  and  ought,  though  without  transgressing  the 
law  which  this  wise  saw  is  intended  to  imply,  supposing  it  to  mean 
that  we  are  not  to  despise  those  who  are  not  dressed  richly  or  with 
elegance.  It  is  true  some  good  people  dress  badly,  judged  by  the 
common  standard ;  yet  dress  must  be  characteristic  where  it  is  the 
result  of  free  choice ;  eyen  the  beggar  may  wear  his  rags  *  with 
a  difference.'  The  sentimental  novelists,  who  have  in  general  no 
great  insight,  have  discovered  this ;  virtuous  poverty  is,  with 
them,  always  picturesque.  "We,  however,  who  deal  with  common 
facts  rather  than  with  uncommon  fancies,  should  hardly  think  it  fair 
to  judge  the  very  poor  by  their  dress.  We  speak  only  of  those  to 
whom  costume  is  a  subject  of  reflection  and  of  taste.  This  class  is 
quite  numerous  enough  to  afford  matter  for  our  paper. 

People  who  live  in  a  state  of  abstraction  must  of  course  be  ex- 
cused for  sins  against  taste  in  dress.  Grave  and  reverend  professors 
have  been  known  to  do  or  leave  undone  strange  things ;  the  outward 
man  suffering  in  proportion  as  the  inner  soared  to  the  depths  sub- 
lime of  science  or  speculation.  A  letter-writer  from  Germany  de- 
scribes the  celebrated  Neander  as  going  one  degree  beyond  Dominie 
Sampson,  in  indifference  to  popular  prejudice  on. this  subject.  And 
Goethe  tells  a  good  story  of  Gottsched,  a  German  savant  whom  he 
visited  at  Leipzig,  who  entered  the  room,  when  summoned  to  receive 
stranger  guests,  with  his  monstrous  bald  head  totally  uncovered ;  and  • 
when  his  servant  rushed  in  with  a  great  full-bottomed  peruque, 
which  was  his  head-gear  of  ceremony,  dealt  the  unfortunate  lackey  a 
sound  box  on  the  ear  for  not  having  put  it  on  him  'before  he  had 
exhibited  himself  in  such  a  ridiculous  plight ;  talking  all  the  while 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF   DRESS.  51 


with  the  most  perfect  coolness  and  self-possession.  There  used  to  be 
an  old  scandal  against  literary  ladies,  charging  them  with  careless- 
ness in  respect  of  appearance.  Pope,  after  he  quarrelled  with  his 
adored  Lady  Mary,  was  never  tired  of  holding  up  her  slatternly 
habits  as  the  consequence  of  bookish  propensities ;  but  this  is  ex- 
ploded now.  Literary  ladies  are  not  easily  distinguishable  from  other 
women  by  any  outward  marks ;  and  it  would  probably  startle  a 
gentleman  to  be  received,  as  tradition  says  an  American  bas-bleu  of 
the  last  century  received  a  visiter  of  distinction — with  her  head  tied 
up  in  brown  paper  and  vinegar,  a  folio  resting  on  her  lap,  and  her 
feet  immersed  in  hot  water  ! 

Grave  occupations  cannot  be  supposed  to  interfere  with  due  at- 
tention to  dress  in  all  cases,  for  the  clergy  are  the  best  dressed  men 
among  us  ;  even  the  most  dressed,  if  we  except  the  small  class  of 
fledgling  exquisites,  whose  minds  the  tie  of  a  cravat  is  sufficient  to  fill. 
Although  not  bound  to  a  particular  costume,  as  in  England,  our 
clergy  may  almost  be  said  to  dress  in  uniform,  for  the  black  suit 
and  the  white  cravat  mark  them  unmistakeably.  And  the  threadbare 
appearance  that  we  have  read  of,  as  sometimes  characterizing  the  less 
fortunate  members  of  the  profession  in  former  days,  would  be  a 
phenomenon ;  nobody  now  living  ever  saw  a  shabby  suit  of  clerical 
black.  One  would  think  the  whole  class  passed  daily  through  the 
hands  of  those  ingenious  persons  who  advertise  to  make  worn  cloth 
"  look  equal  to  new."  We  cannot  deny  that  there  is  something 
pleasant  to  us  in  this  reminiscence  of  the  day  when  a  gentleman  was 
distinguishable  by  his  dress.  The  plainness,  approaching  even  to 
neglect,  observable  in  grave  men  of  other  piofessions,  shocks  our 
cherished  prejudices.  We  would  have  the  scholar  look  like  a 
scholar ;  let  him  be  "  melancholy"  if  he  will,  so  he  be  "  gentleman- 
like." It  is  his  right  and  duty.  It  is  true. 


52  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


A  heavenly  mind 

May  be  indifferent  to  its  house  of  clay, 
And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  its  care — 

but  there  is  a  fitness  in  the  '  customary  suit  of  solemn  black'  for  the 
man  who  deals  with  grave  matters.  How  should  we  like  to  see 
Hamlet  flaunting  in  buff  and  blue ;  or  Dr.  Primrose  in  plaid  neck- 
cloth and  corduroys  ? 

Lockhart  describes  Mr.  Crabbe,  standing  in  the  midst  of  half  a 
dozen  stalwart  Highlanders  at  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  The  Celts  in  full 
costume  on  the  occasion  of  the  King's  visit  to  Edinburgh  ;  the  poet- 
clergyman,  dressed  in  the  highest  style  of  professional  decorum,  with 
powdered  head,  buckles  in  his  shoes,  and  whatever  else  was  befitting 
one  of  his  years  and  station.  The  Highlanders  mistook  the  church- 
man for  some  foreign  Abbe,  or,  as  one  account  says,  for  a  French 
dancing-master,  and  began  to  talk  French  to  him  ;  while  he,  in  his 
turn,  supposed  them  to  be  a  parcel  of  wild  and  rather  dangerous 
savages.  It  was  only  after  Sir  Walter  entered  the  room  and  intro- 
duced his  friends  to  each  other,  that  they  discovered  themselves  to 
be  all  equally  peaceable  British  gentlemen,  made  strangers  to  each 
other  only  by  being  at  the  antipodes  of  dress. 

It  has  been  the  well-motived  atttempt  of  some  moralists  to  repre- 
sent dress  as  a  thing  of  no  consequence ;  undeserving  the  attention  of 
a  rational  being.  But  truth  and  nature 'are  too  strong  for  this  com- 
pulsive pedantiy  of  purism.  Every  man,  woman,  and  child,  knows 
that  dress  is  a  thing  of  consequence  to  the  wearer ;  and  all  the  bio- 
graphers bear  testimony  to  fact  that  it  is  also  important  to  the 
beholder ;  for  they  never  fail  to  describe  the  habitual  costume  of 
their  subject  where  it  can  be  ascertained,  as  at  least  one  means  of 
insight  into  character.  Could  we  have  pardoned  Mr.  Boswell 
if  he  had  given  us  no  hint  of  Dr.  Johnson's  *  vest  unbuttoned,  and 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF    DRESS.  53 


wig  awry ;'  his  shabby  snuff-colored  study  suit,  and  the  laced  one 
which  he  put  on  when  great  doings  were  on  the  carpet  ?  Or  could 
we  have  believed  him  if  he  had  described  his  hero  prim  and  powdered, 
silk-stockinged,  and  shining-shoed  ?  Goldsmith,  with  his  gnawing 
desire  to  be  liked,  confessed  the  importance  of  dress,  by  going  beyond 
his  means  in  finery,  which  he  imagined  would  help  to  hide  his 
awkwardness,  when  he  was  to  meet  those  whom  he  wished  to  please. 
Madame  Goethe,  the  poet's  mother,  when  she  prepared  to  receive  a 
\isit  of  honor  from  Madame  de  Stael,  arrayed  herself  so  gorgeously 
in  dazzling  silks,  with  nodding  plumes  of  two  or  three  colors,  that 
Bettina  came  near  fainting  with  laughter ;  and  the  same  Bettina, 
who  found  the  good  lady's  desire  to  strike  so  ridiculous,  has  lost  the 
respect  of  the  world  by  a  personal  neglect  far  more  offensive  than 
the  most  mistaken  efforts  to  please.  How  many  descriptions  of 
costume  are  to  be  found  in  Horace  Walpole's  acrid  letters !  One 
would  think  his  soul  might  once  have  inhabited  the  body  of  a  court- 
milliner.  And  with  what  gusto  does  Pepys  dwell  upon  his  purchases 
of  rich  attire  for  himself  and  his  wife — '  a  night-gown,  a  great 
bargain  at  24s.,'  and  *  the  very  stuff  for  a  cloak  cost  £6,  and  the 
outside  of  a  coat  £8,'  costume  being,  evidently,  in  his  eyes,  one  of 
the  great  engines  of  human  life.  Novelists  of  all  classes  confess  the 
significance  of  dress,  when  they  devise  expressive  gowns  and  orna- 
ments for  their  heroines,  and  appropriate  drapery  for  their  terrible 
and  grotesque  characters.  Richardson  understood  this  matter  per- 
fectly. In  order  to  set  Sir  Charles  Grandison  and  Miss  Byron 
distinctly  before  us,  eveiy  article  they  wore  is  described;  color,  form, 
texture,  and  cost  Miss  Burney  showed  her  sympathy  with  her 
sex,  by  confessing  the  temptations  of  dress  to  young  ladies  in  society. 
Part  of  Camilla  Tyrold's  terrible  troubles,  over  which  so  mairy 
youthful  tears  have  been  shed,  arose  from  her  having  been  led  into 


54  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


extravagance  by  the  example  of  Mrs.  Berlinton,  and  the  wiles  of  Mrs. 
Mittin,  and  so  running  her  father  in  debt  until  he  was  thrown  into 
jail  on  her  account.  Sir  Walter  Scott  does  not  disdain  to  expatiate 
largely  on  the  costume  of  his  figures,  and  to  show  that  to  him  dress 
was  as  truly  part  of  the  man  or  woman,  as  the  more  strictly  natural 
and  indispensable  envelopings  of  the  soul.  His  own  dress  had  a 
suitable  sturdiness,  expressive  of  the  true,  manly,  human  side  of  his 
character ;  that  side  which  had  withstood  the  conventional  tempta- 
tions and  delusions  too  potent  with  us  all.  '  An  old  green  shooting- 
jacket,  with  a  dog-whistle  at  the  button-hole,  brown  linen  pantaloons, 
stout  shoes  that  tied  at  the  ankles,  and  a  white  hat  that  had 
evidently  seen  service,'  constituted  the  array  in  which  the  '  mighty 
minstrel'  came  limping  down  the  gravel-walk  at  Abbotsford  to  meet 
Washington  Irving.  When  he  dressed  for  dinner,  he  appeared  in 
black,  as  became  the  gentleman  and  the  poet.  Now,  the  broad- 
backed  coat,  the  heavy  shoes,  and  the  stout  stick,  are  shown  in  the 
hall  closet  at  Abbotsford,  sad  and  most  characteristic  memorials  of 
one  to  whose  gifted  eye  trifles  were  instinct  with  meaning. 

It  is  somewhat  to  be  wondered  at,  that  a  people  so  notedly 
shrewd  as  the  Society  of  Friends,  should  have  set  themselves  delib- 
erately at  stemming  a  current  which  evidently  takes  its  rise  some- 
where deep  in  the  foundations  of  our  being ;  and  still  more  that 
they  should  have  attempted  to  reduce  the  importance  and  seductive- 
ness of  dress  by  making  it  an  object  of  strenuous  attention.  There 
is,  however,  much  that  is  rational  in  a  utilitarian  point  of  view,  as 
well  as  much  plausibility  in  a  religious  one,  in  their  stringent  rules 
as  to  form,  color,  and  expensiveness  in  costume.  The  form  is 
intended  as  a  protest  against  the  silly  evanescence  of  the  fashions, 
which,  not  satisfied  with  changing  as  often  as  the  moon,  scarcely  out- 
last the  lunar  rainbow.  The  regulated  cut  is  that  which  all  the 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF    DRESS.  55 


world  wore  when  the  sect  first  assumed  a  distinct  existence.  The 
prevailing  drab  has  an  obvious  intent,  as  excluding  gay  and  attrac- 
tive colors,  which  are  apt  to  beguile  young  eyes  and  thoughts.  The 
proscription  of  certain  rich  and  costly  materials  respects  the  general 
caution  against  conformity  to  the  worldly  standard,  which  is  that  of 
cost,  and  also  the  duty  of  reserving  our  means  for  better  objects  than 
mere  outward  beautifying.  It  needs  no  argument  to  show  the 
excellence  of  these  latter  reasons  for  plain  dress ;  and  society  gives 
them  the  assurance  of  its  approval,  by  making  it  the  most  frequent 
ground  of  sarcasm  against  the  Quakers,  that  they  indemnify  them- 
selves for  plain  cut  and  color  by  wearing  the  most  expensive  fabrics, 
an  inconsistency  too  obvious  for  excuse.  Whether  this  general 
charge  be  just  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  many  conscientious  Friends 
would  as  soon  wear  scarlet  gowns  as  silken  ones,  or  dashing  waist- 
coats as  fine  broadcloth. 

One  advantage  of  the  plain  or  Quaker  dress  is  that  it  renders 
neatness  indispensable.  What  is  partly  dust-colored  already, 
becomes  intolerable  after  it  has  contracted  any  soil ;  and  the  nature 
of  the  soft  neutral  tints  is  such,  that  whatever  is  worn  with  them 
must  be  pure,  or  it  is  shown  up,  inevitably.  Lace  may  be  yellow, 
and  rich  ribands  crumpled,  with  small  offence ;  but  a  plain  cap 
depends  for  its  beauty  upon  snowy  whiteness  and  a  perfect  accuracy 
and  primness  of  outline.  *  The  very  garments  of  a  Quaker,'  says 
Charles  Lamb,  '  seem'  incapable  of  receiving  a  soil;  and  cleanliness 
in  them  to  be  something  more  than  the  absence  of  its  contrary. 
Every  Quakeress  is  a  lily :  and  when  they  come  up  in  bands  to 
their  Whitsun  conferences,  whitening  the  easterly  streets  of  the 
metropolis,  they  show  like  troops  of  the  Shining  Ones.'  Every  on^ 
is  charmed  with  this  dress  in  its  perfection  ;  we  never  hear  any  one 
say  it  is  not  beautiful,  at  least  on  young  women,  whose  fresh  faces 


56  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


do  not  need  the  relief  of  undulating  laces  or  rich  colors.  The 
primness  of  the  style,  and  the  habitual  or  enforced  placidity  of  the 
countenances  of  those  who  use  it,  have  given  occasion  for  charges 
of  affectation  or  coquetry  in  the  young  sisters.  But  they  may  be 
consoled :  for  the  imputation  of  trying  to  be  charming  is,  in  this 
case,  only  a  confession  that  they  are  so. 

The  grace  and  beauty  of  the  Quaker  dress  depends — as  all  that 
is  lovely  in  outward  manifestation  must — upon  its  being  a  true 
expression  of  the  spirit.  Where  it  is  simply  formal,  it  is  hard  and 
ungainly;  where  it  is  compulsory,  it  betrays  the  wearer's  true 
tastes  and  wishes  by  unconscious  deviations  from  the  standard,  and 
leanings  towards  the  forbidden.  Where  it  is  worn  on  conviction,  it 
is  exact  and  not  unbecoming;  but  if  the  result  of  enthusiasm,  it 
becomes  classic  and  elegant  as  Roman  drapery.  We  have  seen  a 
Friend  who,  without  the  least  ostentation,  refrained  from  wearing 
anything  that  had  been  dyed,  preferring  garments  of  the  natural 
color,  as  being  the  extreme  of  simplicity.  The  world  might  laugh 
at  such  a  twilight-gray  as  this  combination  of  soft  browns  produced, 
but  the  painter  would  have  found  in  it  something  congenial  to  his 
eye,  and  a  peculiar  value  in  the  power  with  which  it  set  off  a  fresh, 
ruddy  complexion  and  silver  hair.  We  remember  a  full-length  pic- 
ture of  Thorwaldsen,  painted  in  Italy,  which  reminded  us,  in  its 
1mly  Quaker  dress,  of  the  undyed  Friend  we  had  seen  years  before. 
It  is  noticeable  that  sculptors  have  no  escape  from  the  difficulties  of 
modern  costume,  except  in  a  near  approach  to  the  simplicity  of  the 
Quaker  garb.  If  the  marble  man  must  have  a  coat  on,  the  sculptor 
perforce  shaves  off  all  lappels  and  finicalities,  and  comes  as  near  a 
seamless  garment  as  possible — giving  unconscious  testimony  to  the 
essential  good  taste  of  the  followers  of  George  Fox. 

It  is  the  compulsoriness  of  this  dress  that  spoils  it  as  an  ezpres 


THE   SIGNIFICANCE    OF    DRESS.  57 


sion  of  taste  or  sentiment.  If  it  had  been  left  to  every  man's  con- 
science whether  to  adopt  or  to  reject  the  uniform,  it  would  have 
continued  to  have  a  meaning.  As  convictions  deepened,  indifference 
to  worldly  opinion  would  have  become  more  and  more  evident,  by  the 
gradual  disuse  of  worldly  fashion,  and  conformity  to  the  standard 
of  denominational  simplicity.  But  where  no  liberty  is  allowed, 
there  can  be  no  merit  or  significancy  of  choice.  The  plain  garb 
becomes  not  a  whit  more  dignified  than  any  other  uniform  which 
is  worn  at  peril  of*  cashiering.  Thousands  whoso  conscience 
approve  the  tenets  of  the  Friends,  and  whose  taste  and  judgment 
favor  extreme  plainness  and  inexpensiveness  of  dress  in  people  TV  ho 
profess  serious  aims  in  life,  have  been  deterred  from  joining  the 
society  by  a  feeling  that,  to  renounce  one's  judgment  in  a  matter  so 
personal  as  dress,  is  practically  degrading.  The  garb  is  intended  as 
an  expression  of  a  certain  religious  condition,  yet  it  is  to  be  worn 
with  the  strictest  attention  to  arbitrary  rules,  the  least  deviation 
from  which  subjects  the  wearer  to  the  interference  of  his  fellow- 
Christians  !  This  mistake  towards  bondage  is  one  great  reason  why, 
while  the  principles  of  the  Quakers  are  daily  influencing  those  of 
the  world  more  and  more,  the  Society,  as  a  society  is  on  the 
decline.  Religious  liberty  is  more  precious  to  the  heart  than  any 
other ;  and  the  more  sincere  and  ardent  our  desire  to  withstand  the 
bad  example  of  worldly  people,  the  less  should  we  be  disposed  to 
adopt  any  fixed  outward  symbol  which  might  express  a  greater 
degree  of  renunciation  than  we  had  been  able  to  reach. 

There  is,  no  doubt,  a  reflex  influence  in  dress.  One  of  the  best 
ways  of  inspiring  the  degraded  with  self-respect  is  to  supply  them 
with  decent  and  suitable  clothing;  We '  are  wholly  unable,  at  any 
stage  of  cultivation,  to  withstand  this  influence.  No  lady  is  the 
same  in  a  careless  and  untasteful  morning  envelope,  and  an  elegant 
3* 


58  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


evening  dress ;  the  former  lowers  her  tone — depreciates  her  to  her- 
self, even  though  the  latter  may  be  quite  incapable  of  inspiring  her 
with  pride.  No  man  feels  quite  at  ease  in  a  shining  new  coat ;  he 
is  conscious  of  an  inequality  between  his  present  self  and  the  old 
friend  whom  he  could  have  met  so  warmly  yesterday.  The  friend 
may  not  notice  the  coat  or  its  influence,  but  the  wearer  never  forgets 
it.  The  Spectator,  or  some  one  of  those  cunning  old  observers,  tells 
of  a  young  lady  who  carried  herself  with  unusual  hauteur,  and 
seemed  to  feel  a  new  consciousness  of  power,  upon  no  greater  occa- 
sion than  the  wearing  of  a  new  pair  of  elegant  garters.  This  affords 
an  argument  both  for  and  against  dress.  We  ought  not  to  wear 
what  makes  us  proud  and  creates  a  secret  contempt  of  others ;  but 
neither  should  we  neglect  anything  that  aids  our  self-respect  and 
keeps  our  spirits  at  the  proper  pitch.  Some  parents,  from  the  best 
motives  in  the  world,  do  their  children  serious  injury  by  wilfully 
denying  them  such  dress  as  may  put  them  on  an  outward  equality 
with  their  young  companions,  or  make  them  feel  equal.  It  is  in 
vain  to  be  philosophical  for  other  people ;  we  must  convince  their 
judgments  and  bring  them  over  to  our  way  of  thinking,  before  we 
can  obtain  true  and  healthy  conformity.  We  submit  with  tolerable 
grace  to  restraints  rendered  necessary  by  circumstances,  but  those 
which  appear  to  us  capricious  or  arbitrary  do  not  often  make  us 
better,  especially  where  they  touch  our  pride — that  tissue  of  irritable 
nerves  in  which  our  moral  being  is  enwrapt. 

Every  one  must  have  noticed  the  effect  of  dress  upon  the  character 
and  condition  of  servants.  Those  who  have  grown  up  in  houses 
where  slatternly  personal  habits  are  allowed,  never  become  really 
respectable,  even  although  they  may  have  many  good  qualities 
They  do  not  respect  themselves,  and  their  sympathy  with  their 
employers  is  blunted  by  the  great  difference  in  outward  appearance. 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF    DRESS.  59 


It  is  true  that  domestics  sometimes  act  so  earnestly  upon  this 
principle,  that  they  end  in  erring  on  the  side  of  too  much  attention 
to  costume.  We  remember  once,  and  once  only,  finding  at  a  foreign 
hotel  a  chambermaid  dressed  in  silk,  with  artificial  roses  in  her  hair  J 
the  feeling  that  she  would  not  be  of  much  use  to  us  flashing  across 
the  mind  at  once.  English  servants  hit  the  happy  medium  oftener 
than  any  other  ;v  their  tidiness  suggests  alacrity,  and  we  have  a  com- 
fortable assurance  of  being  well  served,  as  soon  as  we  look  upon 
them.  It  is  odd  what  a  difference  one  feels  in  offering  a  gratuity  to 
a  well  or  ill-dressed  attendant  in  travelling.  Shabbiness  favors  our 
penuriousness,  most  remarkably !  The  eye  scans  the  expectant 
instinctively,  and  instead  of  the  generous  impulse  to  give  most  liber- 
ally to  those  who  need,  we  graduate  our  donation  by  the  probable 
expectation  of  one  who  has  evidently  no£  found  the  world  very 
generous.  If  the  servant  be  well  enough  dressed  to  bespeak  inde- 
pendence, and  especially  if  he  be  gifted  with  the  modest  assurance 
which  is  often  both  cause  and  consequence  of  good  fortune,  pride 
whispers  us  at  once  not  to  disgust  so  genteel  a  person  by  a  shabby 
gift,  and  we  bestow  on  success  what  we  should  grudge  to  necessity. 

Who  can  guess  the  influence  of  dress  upon  the  soldier  ?  What 
would  be  the  spirit  of  a^  army  in  plain  clothes,  patched  at  the 
elbows,  or  even  frc«ty  at  the  seams  ?  In  this  inquiry  wo  bar  the 
American  Revolution,  and  the  '  looped  and  windowed  raggedness' 
of  its  heroes,  as  not  being  in  point.  We  are  speaking  of  soldiers  by 
profession,  rot  of  men  in  arms  for  their  altars  and  their  fires.  How 
many  of  our  young  men  would  seek  commissions  if  the  Quaker  garb 
were  prescribed  ?  Sydney  Smith  speaks  of  the  privilege  of  orna- 
menting one's  head  with  the  tail  of  a  belligerent  bird,  and  covering 
with  gold  lace  the  course  of  the  ischiatic  nerve,  as  among  the  strong 
reasons  for  military  ardor,  ancj.  lie  was  doubtless  right.  If  bravery 


60  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


depended  on  the  internal  stock  of  solid,  deliberate  courage,  there 
would  be  fewer  soldiers  :  '  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outside'  inspires 
the  imagination,  at  least,  if  not  the  reason.  But  what  has  reason  to 
do  with  fighting,  a  matter  in  which  cocks  and  bull-dogs  are  so  far 
superior  to  men  ? 

The  conventual  dress  has  evidently  no  little  power  over  the  imagi- 
nation, and  consequently  over  the  character  and  feelings  of  the 
wearer,  No  one  can  see  a  nun  without  being  sensible  of  this. 
There  is  such  a  careful  significance  about  it,  and  it  is  so  different  in 
principle  from  the  dress  of  the  world,  that  it  would  seem  as  if 
worldly  passions  and  affections  could  hardly  live  within  it.  The 
Black  and  the  Gray  nuns,  of  certain  orders,  wear  bands  of  starched 
linen  which  entirely  hide  the  forehead,  cheeks,  chin,  and  bust,  while 
the  back  of  the  head  and  person  is  equally  concealed  by  a  veil  of 
black  serge,  fastened  at  the  crown  and  so  arranged  that  a  portion 
can  be  drawn  over  the  eyes.  This  is  the  nun  of  our  youthful  fancy, 
and  we  cannot  approach  her  without  a  degree  of  awe,  while,  on  her 
part,  she  seems  to  feel  herself  a  sacred  person.  Turn  her  out  into 
the  world  and  dress  her  like  other  women,  and  new  cares  and  wishes 
would  roll  in  upon  her  like  a  flood,  for  she  would  lack  one  continual 
memento,  if  not  support,  of  her  sanctity.  Beads  and  breviaries 
would  soon  seem  out  of  place  among  jewels  and  laces ;  as  embar- 
rassing as,  per  contra,  were  the  flounces  of  a  dashing  dame  whom 
we  saw  painfully  toiling  up  the  Scala  Santa  on  her  knees,  and 
obliged  to  lift  and  manage  her  rebellious  finery  at  every  rise.  The 
nuns  at  the  Beguinage,  near  Ghent,  wear  great  wide-bordered  c;ip?, 
like  market-women,  and  so  they  seemed  very  much  hi  place  sitting 
in  the  shade  of  the  wall,  shelling  beans,  and  chattering  among  them- 
selves, with  no  great  appearance  or  perhaps  even  feeling  of  dignity 
although  they  are  said  to  be  mostly  lugh-born.  We  may  urge  this 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF    DRESS.  61 


reflex  influence  of  dress  against  the  indulgence  of  expensive  or 
showy  tastes.  The  appetite  grows  with  what  it  feeds  on;  our 
standard  rises  with  our  habits.  When  we  are  used  to  the  feeling 
which  accompanies  rich  and  recherche  costume,  a  lower  style  seems 
to  us  mean  and  unworthy,  especially  on  ourselves — it  is  well  if  the 
influence  go  no  further.  What  pitiable  instances  we  see  of  a 
depression  that  has  no  better  source  than  the  lack  of  means  to  dress 
expensively,  after  the  habit  had  been  formed ;  what  a  craven  spirit 
is  that  which  has  nothing  better  to  sustain  it  than  the  consciousness 
of  elegant  clothing  !  Poor  human  nature  !  Few  of  us  dare  profess 
to  be  free  from  this  weakness.  It  is  strange  that  literary  efforts 
should  be  sometimes  dependent  on  dress,  yet  we  are  assured  that 
this  is  the  case.  One  author  can  only  write  in  dishabille,  another  in 
full  dress.  Richardson  required  a  laced  suit,  and  a  diamond  on  his 
finger ;  Rousseau  acknowledged  a  similar  dependence  at  certain 
periods  of  his  life.  We  once  knew  a  minister  who  never  wrote  a 
good  sermon  unless  he  had  his  old  study-gown  on.  Scott  boasted 
that  he  never  learned  any  of  the  night-go wn-and-slipper  tricks  that 
literary  men  are  apt  to  indulge  in,  but  pursued  his  avocations  in  his 
ordinary  gear.  Lady-authors  do  not  let  the  world  into  the  secrets 
of  their  boudoir ;  but  we  suspect  few  of  them  write  with  arms 
covered  with  bracelets,  or  waists  compressed  to  French-print  pattern, 
however  they  may  own  subjection  to  these  vanities  in  thqjf  ordinary 
states.  Literaiy  pursuits  have  certainly  some  slight  tendency  to 
preserve  the  mind  from  too  exclusive  devotion  to  appearance ;  let 
this  atone  for  some  of  the  sins  which  they  are  supposed  to  favor. 

One  vice  of  dress  literary  ladies  are  accused  of,  and  sometimes 
justly,  viz. :  a  predilection  for  the  picturesque.  We  call  this  a  vice 
of  dress,  because  it  generally  makes  the  wearer  remarkable,  and  not 
pleasantly  so.  Dress  may  be  sometimes  individual  without  offence  ; 


62  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


ordinarily,  good  taste  and  good  breeding  require  that  it  should,  in 
its  general  aspect,  conform  to  the  common  standard,  not  to  an  ideal 
one  peculiar  to  the  wearer.  It  must  be  remembered  that  costume 
which  would  serve  admirably  for  a  picture  or  a  description,  may  be 
quite  unpresentable  in  a  drawing-room.  In  the  old  satirical  novel  of 
Cherubina,  or  the  Heroine,  the  lady,  impassioned  for  the  picturesque, 
takes  '  an  entire  piece  of  the  finest  cambric,'  and  disposes  it  most 
statuesquely  about  her  person.  ''A  zone,  a  clasp,  and  a  bodkin,'  she 
says,  *  completed  all !'  But  the  result  was  disastrous.  Far  short 
of  this  extreme,  we  have  seen  imaginative  ladies  make  the  most 
extraordinary  figure  in  company,  from  the  indulgence  of  an  indi- 
vidual taste  in  dress,  instead  of  a  modest  acquiescence  with  the  reign- 
ing mode. 

*  What !  be  a  slave  to  fashion !'  '  No,  but  make  fashion  your 
servant,  by  using  it  just  so  far  as  it  serves  your  purpose,  i.  e.,  enables 
you  to  present  a  becoming  and  respectable  appearance  in  society.' 
We  venture  to  say  that  it  is  hardly  possible  to  respect  anybody  who 
is  fantastically  dressed.  To  differ  much  from  others  in  this  matter, 
bespeaks  a  degree  of  thought  and  plan  on  the  part  of  the  wearer, 
which  detracts  from  dignity  of  character.  We  all  like  the  company 
of  even  an  ultra-fashionist,  made  up  by  tailors  or  milliners,  better 
than  of  one  who  forces  us  to  notice  trifles,  by  appearing  in  array  so 
peculiar  a|§to  strike  the  eye  while  it  offends  the  habit,  at  least,  if  not 
the  judgment.  To  be  passive  under  the  hands  of  people  who  make 
it  their  business  to  study  the  forms,  effect,  and  harmony  of  dress  is 
surely  wiser  than  to  usurp  their  office,  for  which  one's  own  habitual 
employments  are  likely  to  do  anything  but  prepare.  A  veto  power 
must  be  reserved,  however,  for  people  who  live  always  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  decoration  are  rather  prone  to  overdress  one,  if  they  are  no£ 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF   DRESS.  63 


watched.  Eyes  accustomed  to  a  furnace  glare  may  learn  to  deem 
the  light  of  common  day  ineffectual. 

"Women  generally  have  an  intense  dislike  to  the  picturesque  style 
in  female  dress,  and  they  are  not  at  all  apt  to  think  favorably  of  the 
stray  sheep  who  adopt  it."  Some  '  ill-avis'd'  persons  fancy  that  ladies 
dress  for  the  eyes  of  gentlemen,  but  this  opinion  shows  little  know- 
ledge of  the  sex.  Gentlemen  dress  for  ladies,  but  ladies  for  each 
other.  The  anxiety  that  is  felt  about  the  peculiarities  of  fashion,  the 
chase  after  novelty,  the  thirst  for  expense,  all  refer  to  women's  judg- 
ment and  admiration,  for  of  these  particulars  men  know  nothing. 
Here  we  touch  upon  the  point  in  question.  Women  who  depart 
from  fashion  in  search  of  the  picturesque  are  suspected  of  a  special 
desire  to  be  charming  to  the  other  sex,  a  fault  naturally  unpardon- 
able, for  ought  we  not  all  to  start  fair  ?  Has  any  individual  a  right 
to  be  weaving  private  nets,  and  using  unauthorized  charms  ?  A 
lady  who  values  her  character,  had  better  not  pretend  to  be  inde- 
pendent of  the  fashion.  The  extra  admiration  of  a  few  of  her  more 
poetical  beaux  will  not  compensate  for  the  angry  sarcasms  she  must 
expect  from  her  own  sex.  This  is  a  matter  in  which  we  find  it  hard 
to  be  merciful,  or  even  candid. 

Shall  the  becoming,  then,  be  sacrificed  to  the  caprices  of  fashion, 
which  consults  neither  complexion,  shape,  nor  air,  but  considers  the 
female  sex  only  as  a  sort  of  dough,  which  is  to  be  moulded  at  plea- 
sure, and  squeezed  into  all  possible  forms,  at  the  waving  of  a  wand  ? 
We  do  not  go  so  far.  There  are  rules  of  tsfete — standards  of  grace 
and  beauty — boundaries  of  modesty  and  propriety — restraints  of 
Christian  benevolence.  Saving  and  excepting  the  claims  of  these, 
we  say  follow  the  fashion  enough  to  avoid  singularity,  and  do  not 
set  up  to  be  an  inventor  in  costume. 

Of  the  artifices  of  dress,  we  might  say  a  good  deal,  if  we  were  not 


64  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


afraid  of  growing  intolerably  serious.  Not  so  much,  the  artifices  by 
which  defects  of  person  are  rendered  less  noticeable,  as  those  which 
are  intended  to  compass  an  appearance  beyond  our  means.  This 
leads  to  mock  jewelry,  and  various  other  meannesses,  as  well  as  to 
that  vicious  habit  of  shopping  which  tempts  the  salesman  to  dis- 
honesty, by  showing  him  it  is  vain  to  hope  to  sell  good  articles  at 
fair  prices.  *  We've  been  cutting  up  several  whole  pieces  of  lace 
into  remnants]  said  a  shopman  the  other  day,  in  our  hearing, 
'  because  ladies  will  not  buy  unless  we  have  remnants  for  them.' 
And  the  time  that  is  spent  in  walking  miles  in  chase  of  bargains, 
which  generally  prove  dear  enough  in  the  end,  might  be  considered 
worse  than  wasted,  if  it  were  not  that  there  is  some  exercise  for  the 
muscles  in  this  sort  of  enterprise.  It  is  true  that  the  desire  to  -get 
what  the  English  call  your  '  pen'orth,'  is  a  natural  one,  and  that  it 
is  not  very  easy  to  draw  the  line  between  a  proper  care  of  one's 
money,  and  too  great  a  solicitude  to  obtain  '  cheap  things.'  Nobody 
knows  with  certainty,  except  the  purchaser  herself,  what  is  tho 
motive,  and  what  the  merit  or  demerit  of  the  labor  she  submits  to 
in  shopping ;  but  she  knows  very  well,  and  to  her  must  the  decision 
be  referred.  If  a  weak  hankering  after  a  style  of  dress  more  costly 
than  we  can  honestly  afford,  causes  us  to  shop  in  a  mean  and  grasp- 
ing way,  we,  at  least  know  it,  whether  any  one  else  discovers  it  or 
not,  and  it  is  a  matter  very  well  worth  an  hour's  thought  and 
sifting. 

There  is,  perhaps,  ndthing  more  hardening  to  the  heart,  in  a  small 
way,  than  the  habit  here  alluded  to.  After  we  have  once  set  our 
mark  too  high,  and  are  straining  every  nerve  to  approach  it,  no 
spareodollar  is  ever  at  our  command  for  a  benevolent  or  friendly  pur- 
pose. The  too-great  toils  of  an  anxious  husband — painful  contrasts 
with  less  aspiring  or  less  successful  friends — the  half-paid  labors  of 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF   DRESS.  05 


the  poor  seamstress  who  contributes  to  further  our  selfish  aims — the 
sight  of  suffering  which  has  just  claims  upon  us — all  are  as  nothing 
and  less  than  nothing.  Conscience,  pity,  and  affection  are  not  more 
surely  blunted  by  any  of  the  so-called  minor  offences,  than  by  a  pur- 
suit of  dress  in  this  temper.  The  competition  is  too  keen  for  friend- 
ship, too  petty  for  generosity,  almost  too  grasping  for  honesty.  We 
have  high  authority  for  believing  that  it  has  even  been  known  to 
lead  to  insanity,  and,  judging  by  some  extreme  cases  within  cur 
notice,  we  can  well  imagine  it.  A  pursuit  so  futile,  so  inimical  to  all 
that  is  serious  and  ennobling,  can  hardly  be  safe ;  for  Nature  will 
revenge  herself  when  we  trample  her  best  gifts  under  foot,  and  insist 
on  choosing  for  ourselves  a  position  in  the  scale  of  being  far  lo"ver 
than  that  which  she  assigns  us. 

The  practice  of  wearing  mourning  for  departed  friends,  once  uni- 
versal in  this  country,  has  fallen  into  disuse  in  no  inconsiderable 
degree.  Many  .  persons  decline  wearing  it  from  a  conscientious 
scruple — saying,  that  although  it  is  undoubtedly  a  gratification  to 
our  feelings  to  discard  all  gay  colors  when  the  heart  is  oppressed 
with  grief,  yet  the  practice  among  the  richer  classes  of  wearing 
mourning,  leads  the  poor — whose  grief  is  equally  sincere,  and  who 
feel  the  same  desire  to  show  respect  for  the  memory  of  the  dead — • 
into  expenses  they  cannot  afford.  Even  among  that  large  class 
whose  means  barely  suffice  for  a  genteel  appearance,  it  often  happens 
that  to  lay  aside  all  the  clothing  already  prepared  for  a  family,  and 
buy  a  new  outfit  of  expensive  materials,  is  extremely  inconvenient, 
and  leads  to  painful  sacrifices  for  an  inadequate  cause. 

This  has  always  appeared  to  us  rather  a  difficult  point.  To  those 
whose  only  law  of  conduct  is  implied  in  the  inquiry,  'What  will 
people  say  ?'  it  is  not  a  question  at  all ;  since  the  bare  possibility 
that  their  conduct  will  become  the  subject  of  remark,  would  operate 


66  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


so  powerfully  with  them  as  to  exclude  all  consideration  of  the 
intrinsic  propriety  of  any  action.  Nor  to  that  other  kind  of 
mourners  whose  anxiety  for  "  fashionable,'  and  '  becoming,'  and 

*  proper5  mourning,  often  fills  the  house  of  death  with  bustle  and 
animation,  even  while  the  cold  remains  which  gave  the  excuse  for 
new  dresses,  are  lying  almost  forgotten  in  the  next  room.     These 
are  the  last  to  inquire  into  the  meaning  or  effects  of  the  custom. 
Its  poetry,  its  philosophy,  its  utility,  its  morality  concerns  them  not. 
But  to  those  whose  hearts  really  long  for  some  means  of  expressing 
their  unavailing  sorrow,  who  hate  the  sight  of  all  that  is  gay,  and 
almost  of  the  blessed  sun  himself,  during  the  first  paroxysm  of 
grief,  there  is  often  a  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  indulging  the 
natural  feeling  ;  and  many  have,  at  a  great  sacrifice,  given  up  the 
wearing  of  mourning,  from  the  consideration  to  which  we  allude — 
the  inconvenience  resulting  to  the  poor  from  attempting  to  follow  a 
fashion  which  their  feelmgs  prompt,  as  much  as  those  of  their  more 
fortunate  neighbors. 

We  acknowledge  the  excellence  of  the  motive,  and  the  truth  of 
the  objection  ;  yet  we  confess  an  increasing  reluctance  to  see  a  time- 
hallowed  custom  falling  into  disuse  among  those  whose  true  and 
loving  hearts  would  give  it  its  real  consecration.  Besides  the  poetry 
of  a  '  garb  of  woe,'  to  give  an  outward  shadow  of  the  grief  within 
there  is  a  mute  appeal  to  human  sympathy,  not  without  its  uses  in 
a  world  where  every  change  is  towards  the  cold  individuality  that 
affects  to  scorn  all  acknowledgment  of  mutual  dependence.  There 
is  a  touch  of  nature  about  it.  The  most  afflicted  man  of  old  said, 

*  Pity  me,  oh  my  friends  !  for  the  hand  of  God  has  touched  me  !' 
and  from  his  day  to  ours,  such  is  the  true  and  natural  language  of 
the  heart  unhardened  by  pride  and  conventional  refinement.     We 
long  for  sympathy,  however  unavailing ;  and  though  there  is  a  mad 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF   DRESS.  67 


and  wilful  sorrow  that  repels  it  with  disdain,  this  is  but  the  raving  of 
an  unsubdued  spirit,  rebelling  against  the  hand  that  smites,  and 
venting  on  the  creature  the  anger  whose  real  object  is  the  Creator. 
When  the  better  moment  comes,  and  reason  and  religion  restore  the 
sufferer  to  himself,  the  deeper  his  affliction,  the  more  sensible  will  he 
be  to  the  humblest  expression  of  sympathy.  Those  who  feel  not 
have  not  yet  known  grief. 

In  a  certain  class  of  society,  the  extreme  punctiliousness  with 
which  all  the  rules  for  a  '  proper'  mourning  costume  are  carried  out, 
is  in  strange  contrast  to  the  superiority  to  human  sympathy  which 
is  affected  by  the  individuals  concerned.  So  determined  are  they 
to  own  nothing  in  common  with  ordinary  clay,  that  they  resent,  as 
an  impertinent  personalty,  any  particular  inquiry  after  the  health  of 
a  member  of  the  family  who  is  evidently  wasting  with  consumption, 
or  swollen  with  dropsy.  They  resolutely  throw  a  veil  over  the 
infirmities  of  nature,  and  affect  not  to  believe  that  what  they  love, 

*  Like  common  earth  can  rot.' 

And  when  the  bolt  has  fallen,  and  it  is  impossible  longer  to  con- 
ceal the  humiliating  fact  of  a  perishable  nature  like  that  of  the 
meanest  beggar,  with  what  a  haughty  disdain  they  seclude  them- 
selves from  all  eyes — except  the  dressmaker's1 — leaving  to  hirelings 
all  that  relates  to  the  last  disposition  of  the  remains,  watchful  only 
that  no  cost  or  ceremony  which  may  vindicate  the  claims  of  an 
unapproachable  superiority  may  be  lacking.  Yet  these  very  people, 
secluded  in  all  the  dignity  of  aristocratic  grief,  may  often  bo  found 
in  most  anxious  consultation  with  the  *  artists'  indispensable  on  such 
occasions,  as  to  the  width  of  a  hem,  the  length  of  a  weeper,  or  the 
latest  style  of  a  shroud !  And  all  this  with  reference  to  an  impres- 
sion on  the  very  multitude  whom  they  affect  to  despise. 


68  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


A  mourning  garb  is  not  without  its  utility,  in  reminding  of  our 
loss,  company  who  might  otherwise  forget  that  mirth  would  be  dis- 
tasteful ;  and  in  accounting  for  a  grave  and  sad  countenance,  which 
might  call  forth  remark  or  inquiry,  which  it  would  be  painful  to 
answer.  There  may  be  cases,  too,  and  we  think  we  could  point  to 
more  than  one,  where  bombazine  and  crape  have  served  to  keep  in 
the  minds  of  the  younger  and  more  thoughtless  members  of  a 
family,  that  gaiety  did  not  become  those  who  had  experienced  a  loss 
that  could  never  be  repaired,  or  even  those  who  had  recently  passed 
through  the  sad  scenes  incident  to  a  death  in  the  house.  But  these 
considerations  referring  merely  to  the  outward,  are  of  small  conse- 
quence. 

The  conscientious  scruple  to  which  we  referred,  is  one  which  we 
owe  to  the  Puritanic  spirit,  among  many  good  things  and  some  of 
questionable  advantage.  The  cultivation  of  an  ever  present  regard 
for  the  good  of  others  is  always  commendable,  but  we  must  take  the 
wide  and  not  the  narrow  view  as  to  what  is  the  best  good  of  those 
whom  we  would  benefit.  The  domestic  affections  are  among  the  best 
safeguards  of  virtue ;  and  whatever  tends  to  keep  these  alive  and 
warm  is  of  incalculable  value.  The  utilitarian  view,  which  would  curtail 
as  much  as  possible  the  sorrow  for  the  dead,  is  a  chilling  and  injurious 
one  ;  and  if  mourning  garments  contribute  in  ^any  degree  to  prolong 
the  tender  impression,  we  should  be  willing  that  even  the  poor 
should  make  considerable  sacrifices  to  procure  them.  We  should 
be  still  better  pleased  to  see  the  rich  provide  them  for  their  poor 
neighbors,  making  their  own  a  little  less  costly,  if  necessary,  in  order 
to  gratify  this  natural  feeling.  Nothing  valuable  is  gained  by  dead- 
ening the  sensibilities,  yet  it  would  seem  to  be  the  error  of  some 
very  good  people  to  imagine  that  those  in  whom  they  take  an  inte- 
rest, are  never  quite  in  the  right  way  until  they  subside  into  mere 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF    DRESS.  69 


machines.  The  sacrifices  ^hich  are  made  to  procure  something 
much  desired,  are  in  themselves  not  without  good  effect  ;  and  when 
that  something  is  far  removed  from  any  gross  or  frivolous  pleasure, 
the  very  effort  is  enobling  in  a  greater  or  less  degree. 

The  practice  of  wearing  some  outward  sign  of  mourning  upon 
the  death  of  a  relative  is,  we  believe,  as  universal  as  sorrow  itself. 
It  would  seem  to  be  a  dictate  of  nature  to  signalize  the  departure 
of  a  human  soul  from  this  busy  scene  of  hopes  and  fears,  by  a 
change  in  the  outward  appearance  o,f  those  who  survive.  Philoso- 

phy may  teach  that 

The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom  : 

and  that  it  is  therefore  absurd  to  bewail  the  adding  of  a  unit  to  the 
untold  millions  gone  before.  Religion  may  assure  us,  that  in  spite 
of  the  dread  outward  change,  and  the  removal  of  the  earthly  taber- 
nacle from  our  sight  forever,  the  freed  soul  knows  no  interruption  to 
its  life,  but  rejoices  in  continuous  and  unbroken  existence,  endowed 
with  powers  unknown  before,  and  new  capacities  for  the  comprehen- 
sion of  eternal  truth.  Yet  death  is  awful  to  all,  and  the  veriest 
savages  make  its  occurrence  the  occasion  of  solemn  rites  and  personal 
humiliation.  Let  us  beware  then  how  we  interfere  to  counteract  an 
obvious  dictate  of  nature. 

There  seems  a  peculiar  fitness  in  black  as  the  color  of  mourning 
—  so  much  so,  that  it  seems  a  little  remarkable  that  various  colors 
should  have  been  chosen  by  different  nations  for  this  purpose.  The 
hue  which  absorbs  and  hides  all  the  rays  that  brighten  the  face  of 
creation,  typifies  well  the  chastened  state  of  mind  in  which  one  idea 


fO  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 

is  of  power  sufficient  to  drink  up,  as  it  were,  all  the  rest ;  so  that 
thoughts  which  are  the  source  of  comfort  at  other  times,  are  either 
indifferent  or  absolutely  displeasing.  Black  is  the  color  of  the  cloud 
that  hides  the  sun — of  the  gloomy  cave — the  shaded  pool — the 
cheerless  midnight  of^  the  lonely  watcher.  It  is  the  hue  of  decayed 
nature — the  image  of  the  literal  shadow  which  seems  to  rest  upon 
all  outward  objects  when  the  delight  of  our  eyes  is  removed  at  a 
stroke.  The  black  veil  of  the  mourner  enables  her  to  weep  unob- 
served— no  trifling  boon,  wEen«even  the  most  trivial  occurrence  or 
ordinary  object  brings  up  the  image  of  the  loved  and  lost. 

The  punctilio  of  mourning — on  which  we  set  but  little  value — is 
much  more  closely  observed  in  Europe  than  in  this  country.  There, 
no  person  thinks  of  going  to  a  funeral  in  any  but  a  black  dress — those 
who  are  not  in  the  habit  of  wearing  it,  keeping  a  suit  for  this  purpose. 
Every  scrap  of  paper,  card,  fan,  watch-ribbon,  must  bear  some  sign 
of  grief;  and  while  etiquette  is  as  closely  consulted  as  ever,  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  household  is  changed.  Not  only  do  those  in 
mourning  use  black  seals,  but  it  is  considered  but  polite  for  those 
unconnected  to  seal  with  black  in  return.  Some  of  these  petty 
observances  are  gaining  ground  among  us,  but  we  would  not  have 
our  observations  respecting  the  uses  of  a  mourning  dress  considered 
as  including  them.  They  have  little  to  do  with  the  real  meaning  of 
the  custom. 

In  one  respect  we  would  gladly  see  our  young  countrywomen  take 
a  lesson  from  the  English,  in  the  matter  of  mingling  in  the  gayeties 
of  the  world,  while  still  shrouded  in  the  dress  which  tells  of  a  lost 
friend.  If  we  may  believe  Pope,  the  ladies  of  his  time  were  some- 
times known 

To  bear  about  the  mockery  of  wo, 

To  midnight  dances  and  the  public  showj 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF    DRESS.  71 


but  a  purer  taste  now  prevails.  Among  us  the  anomaly  is  but  too 
common.  We  have  seen  even  a  widow,  in  all  the  excitement  of  a 
dance,  with  a  scarf  of  black  crape  floating  behind  her,  and  her  black 
dress  looking  like  an  ominous  cloud  in  the  midst  of  gauze  and  roses. 
But  we  would  hope  such  sights  are  rare. 

Almost  all  ornaments  are  out  of  place  in  mourning.  Flounces  and 
furbelows  are  a  miserable  solecism,  and  black  flowers  an  odious^ 
mockery.  The  moment  we  feel  a  desire  for  these  things,  we  should 
honestly  throw  aside  the  semblance  of  wo,  and  confess  that  we  are 
quite  ready  for  the  world  again.  Perhaps  one  of  the  objections  to 
mourning  is,  that  it  gives  occasion  to  no  little  hypocrisy  of  this  sort. 

The  practice  of  wearing  mourning  is  one  in  which  all  the 
world  has  seemed,  until  now,  to  be  of  one  mind.  The  savage  wears 
knife-cuts,  the  Jew,  a  beard — the  Oriental  ashes — the  Anglo-Saxon, 
bombazine  and  weepers — and  so  on,  through  a  strange  variety, 
among  which  must  be  counted  the  flame-robe  of  the  Hindoo  widow, 
probably  in  many  cases  no  whit  more  truly  significant  than  the  less 
costly  one  of  her  white  sister.  An  impulse  thus  universal  must 
needs  be  referred  to  no  manufactured  sentiment.  In  spite  of  the 
Quaker  and  the  rationalist — who  find  reasons  quite  conclusive,  on 
their  principles,  against  the  practice — we  must  consider  the  impulse 
to  put  on  a  garb  significant  of  grief,  as  a  perfectly  natural  one.  The 
immediate  presence  of  sorrow  is  absorbing  and  exclusive.  Even  the 
affection  of  survivors  is  of  little  value  to  us  while  bereavement  is 
fresh.  The  mind,  insanely  devoted  to  one  topic,  can  entertain  other 
thoughts  only  as  they  point  to  that.  It  woujd  have  the  world  and 
ite  concerns  at  a  stand,  that  nothing  may  hinder  the  indulgence  and 
fostering  of  its  misery.  Society  is  nothing  to  it — the  customs  of 
life  are  empty  or  irksome — the  living  are  vulgar — only  the  dead 
precious  and  sublime.  It  is  in  this  mood  that  mourning,  weeds 


72  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


originate — this  is  the  theory  of  them.     Practically — and  here  arise 
the  objections  to  them — they  are  quite  another  thing. 

The  peculiar  dignity  of  grief  is  that  it  brings  the  sufferer  into 
immediate  contact  with  the  supernatural  world.  No  matter  how 
hard  or  how  world-spoiled  the  heart — no  matter  how  vitiated  the 
imagination  or  the  habits — when  one  that  we  love  with  our  strong, 
human,  instinctive  love,  is  stricken  down  before  our  eyes,  we  see  the 
Hand  that  deals  the  blow,  and  the  occasion  at  once  rises  to  the 
grandeur  of  a  divine  visitation.  To  cherish  sorrow  becomes  on  this 
account  honorable;  it  individualizes  us,  and  raises  us  above  the 
common,  careless  herd;  we  have  had  direct  communication  with 
the  mysterious  Unknown;  we  have  a  right  to  be  distinguished. 
But  this,  being  a  passionate  state,  does  not  naturally  endure.  The 
present  resumes  its  hold  upon  us,  and  we  feel  that  we  are  falling 
into  the  line  again,  not  willingly,  but  by  an  irresistible  power — that 
of  habit.  Mourning  garments  do  something  towards  arresting  this 
tendency  ;  they  at  least  serve  to  remind  ourselves  and  those  about 
us  that  we  have  been  among  high  thoughts — that  we  have  had 
heart  experiences  which  in  some  degree  revealed  us  to  ourselves, 
and  so  raised  us  for  the  time,  above  demeaning  daily  influences. 

This  being  the  signification  of  grief  and  its  symbols,  counterfeits 
become  inevitable.  "While  there  is  nothing  which  people  repel 
more  indignantly  than  the  imputation  of  insensibility  under  bereave- 
ment, it  must  be  that  mourning  is  often  worn  as  a  mere  form. 
Instead  of  being  a  voluntary  putting  away  of  the  vanity  of  dress — 
a  purposed  disfiguring  of  ourselves  to  the  living,  out  of  devotion  to 
the  idea  of  the  dead — it  becomes  as  finical  and  ostentatious  as  a 
coronation  robe,  and  sits  as  incongruously  on  the  wearer.  Whether 
we  ought,  for  the  sake  of  such  instances,  to  condemn  the  wearing  of 
mourning  altogether,  may  still  bo  a  question.  In  discussing  the 


THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF   DRESS.  73 


significance  of  dress,  we  touch  its   morals   only  incidentally,  reserv  • 
ing  what  we  may  have  to  say  on  that  topic,  for  another  occasion. 

The  array  of  the  body  for  the  grave  —  everywhere  a  point  of 
sacred  interest  —  has  a  meaning,  of  course,  though  at  our  stage  of 
civilization  it  is  not  always  an  obvious  one.  In  countries  more 
under  the  acknowledged  influence  of  primitive  ideas  than  our  own, 
there  are  various  picturesque  and  beautiful  decorations  of  the  lifeless 
form,  as  flowers,  ribbands,  and  even  robes  of  ceremony.  There  is  an 
attempt  to  throw  something  like  illusion  over  what  is  in  itself  revolt- 
ing —  to  withstand  the  death-chill  as  long  as  possible  by  suggestions 
of  life's  sunshine.  This  attempt  marks  timid,  poetical,  and  sensitive 
races  ;  to  our  sturdiness  there  is  a  sort  of  savage  pleasure  in  facing 
death  in  all  his  horrible  distinctness.  We  banish  whatever  looks 
like  the  garb  of  living  men.  We  choose  forms  and  tints  that  insure. 
a  cadaverous  aspect  to  the  dead,  and  make  him  as  unlike  the 
breathing,  hopeful  yesterday  as  possible.  It  would  seem  almost 
sacrilegious  to  us  to  lay  him  in  the  earth  '  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  ;' 
to  dress  him  in  rich  robes,  as  for  solemn  audience,  would  be  so  revolt- 
ing that  we  could  hardly  expect  friends  to  be  found  adventurous 
enough  to  countenance  the  last  rites.  Yet  why  should  this  be  so  ? 
Why  should  we  put  weapons  into  the  hand  of  death,  wherewith  to 
pierce  our  own  souls,  and  help  the  grave  to  its  too  easy  victory  over 
the  imagination  ?  Why  not  consent  to  greater  simplicity  of  recep- 
tion of  the  last  enemy  ?  To  figure  death  as  a  grinning  skeleton  has 
not  the  moral  effect  we  think  it  has  ;  it  is  only  a  confession  of  weak- 
ness. The  poetical  image  of  a  beautiful  female  folding  a  sleeping 
infant  to  her  bosom,  and  bearing  it  softly  away,  amid  the  hush  of 
night,  to  the  distant  spheres,  inspires  loftier  and  more  dutiful 
thoughts  of  the  change  decreed  alike  to  all,  and  necessarily  benefi- 

cent. 

4 


74  THE    EVEXING    BOOK. 

We  have  hardly  done  more  in  this  paper  than  express  our 
opinion  that  the  expression  of  our  dress  is  nearly  as  characteristic  as 
that  of  our  faces  ;  but  if  we  have  put  our  readers  upon  thinking  the 
matter  out  for  themselves,  we  shall  be  content  We  would  fain 
redeem  them  from  the  tyranny  of  French  prints,  which,  made  for 
sale,  and  not  faithful  transcripts  of  the  graceful  and  artistically 
chaste  costume  of  the  Parisian  elegante,  have  done  much  to  intro- 
duce a  gaudy  and  vicious  style  among  us — a  style  which,  in  very 
many  cases,  would  not  bear  interpreting  on  the  principles  here 
advanced. 

NOTE.  In  treating  of  the  significance  of  dress,  we  might  be  expected  to  say 
something  of  the  so-called  'Bloomer'  costume,  which  has  excited  a  good 
deal  of  notice  lately,  and  brought  out  many  opinions  pro  and  con.  As  to 
the  propriety  of  this  dress,  we  never  entertained  any  doubt ;  as  to  its  grace 
and  beauty,  we  remain  as  yet  unconvinced.  We  look  upon  it  as  entirely 
modest,  and  not  unfeminine,  our  prejudices  in  favor  of  more  flowing  drapery 
to  the  contrary  notwithstanding ;  but  to  cut  the  figure  by  a  short  skirt,  is 
contrary  to  all  rules  of  art  where  dignity  is  to  be  expressed.  Youthful 
lightness  and  agility  are  well  typified  in  this  way ;  and  accordingly,  no  one 
objects  to  the  *  robe  succinct'  for  our  half-grown  daughters.  But  when  the 
matron  assumes  a  costume  of  similar  character,  we  consider  her  as  sacrific- 
ing beauty  to  utility — very  commendable  sometimes,  but  not  necessary 
always.  The  reformers  in  dress  fall  into  an  error  common  with  reformers 
— of  claiming  too  much  for  their  plan.  It  is  well  to  recommend  a  conveni- 
ent dress  for  its  merits,  but  it  is  not  well  to  attempt  to  show  that  all  other 
dresses  are  absurd.  The  prettiest  name  yet  devised  for  the  new  costume  is 
the 'Camilla.'  For, 

'  Swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 
"Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn  and  skims  along  the  main  ;' 

ana  as  the  dress  is  especially  advocated  on  account  of  allowing  the  free  use 
of  the  limbs,  this  classical  designation  is  peculiarly  appropriate. 


CONVERSATION, 

, 

OUR  best  gifts  are  least  praised,  perhaps  least  prized.  Whatever 
outward  good  enters  into  the  very  texture  of  our  life's  life,  has  little 
chance  of  being  duly  honored.  Those  pleasures,  without  which  we 
should  be  wretched,  we  treat  as  insignificant,  because  they  are  indis- 
pensable. It  is  so  with  conversation,  a  pleasure  for  which  all  men 
have  a  taste  ;  one  which  is  never  relinquished  except  by  compulsion, 
or  some  motive  almost  as  potent.  Says  Emerson,  '  Good  as  is 
discourse,  silence  is  better  and  shames  it ;'  but  the  world  is  far  from 
understanding,  or  at  least  adopting  this  philosophy.  The  silence  of 
monastic  life  is  the  highest  triumph  of  asceticism ;  that  of  prison 
existence  the  utmost  cruelty  of  the  law.  The  sage  loves  conversa- 
tion better  than  the  child,  for  the  very  desire  of  acquiring  makes 
him  anxious  to  impart.  Joy  prattles  ;  grief  must  talk  or  die ;  both 
are  eloquent,  for  passion  is  always  so.  A  feeling  too  strong  for 
words  is  agony ;  if  they  be  long  withheld,  it  becomes  madness. 
The  chattering  of  youth  is  the  overflow  of  animal  spirits  by  the 
stimulus  of  new  ideas  ;  the  garrulity  of  age  seems  an  effort  to  excite 
the  fainting  animal  spirits,  by  recalling  the  ideas  which  once  stimu- 
lated them.  Letter-writing  is  an  effort  at  conversation ;  so  indeed 
is  essay-writing.  Let  us  then  have  a  talk  about  talking.  Our 


76  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


object  shall  be  to  show  that  we  do  not  give  it  a  due  share  of  atten- 
tion, or  at  least  to  inquire  whether  we  do  or  not. 

Goethe  advises  that  we  shall  at  least '  speak  every  day  a  few  good 
words.'  Do  we  concern  ourselves  about  this  when  we  are  making 
up  the  day's  account  ?  Did  we  begin  the  day  with  any  resolves 
about  it,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  consequence,  or  have  we  maundered 
on,  dropping  tinkling  words  about  trifles,  or  evil  words  like  fire- 
brands, or  words  of  gloom  and  repining,  insulting  Providence,  or 
words  of  hatred,  piercing  hearts  that  love  us  ?  Each  day's  talk  is 
surely  no  trifle ;  we  can  hardly  help  sowing  the  germs  of  many 
thoughts  in  a  twelve  hours'  intercourse  with  our  co-mates,  in  the 
ordinary  duties  of  life ;  and  allowing  our  words  only  a  negative 
value,  we'  rob  our  friends  of  all  the  good  and  pleasure  that  we  might 
bestow  and  do  not.  Young  and  old  alike  have  claims  upon  us  for 
the  cheap  gift  of  our  good  thoughts  ;  the  young,  because  it  is  their 
spring-time,  and  they  must  have  good  thoughts  or  bad  ones,  flowers 
or  weeds  ;  the  old,  for  that  life's  troubles  have  cast  so  many  shadows 
upon  their  minds,  that  it  is  cruel  to  let  slip  any  chance  of  cheering 
them  by  means  of  whatever  advantage  we  possess.  If  they  despond 
habitually,  a  few  rightly  chosen  words  may  present  a  new  side  of 
affairs  for  their  relief ;  if  they  are  soured,  words  of  affection  are  all- 
powerful  to  neutralize  such  acids.  Let  us  not  dare  to  put  them  off 
with  silence ;  in  such  a  case  it  is  a  confession  of  the  weakness  of  our 
virtue.  Incommunicative  households  are  only  a  step  behind  quarrel- 
ing households.  Some  people  are  taciturn  only  because  they  cannot 
open  their  mouths  without  saying  something  disagreeable.  They  have 
just  goodness  enough  to  be  silent,  not  enough  to  reform  the  inward 
sullenness  of  their  temper. 

There  are  those  who  have  never  even  entertained  the  idea  that 
under  certain  circumstances  it  may  become  a  duty  to  talk.  They 


CONVERSATION.  f? 

.       __^_^^__^____ 

talk  when  they  like,  and  when  not  moved  by  inclination  they  sit 
mum,  leaving  the  trouble  to  others.  That  it  is  sometimes  a  trouble 
to  talk  is  very  true ;  the  French  have  a  proverbial  saying  which 
expresses  this ;  they  say  of  a  talker,  that  he  '  bore  the  expense' 
of  the  conversation.  It  is  true  too,  that  we  feel  as  if  we  made  a 
stupid  figure  in  making  an  effort  to  talk.  This  is  what  the  mum 
people  of  whom  we  are  speaking  think,  and  pride  and  selfishness 
prompt  them  to  leave  the  disagreeable  to  others.  O  the  misery  of 
being  obliged  to  ask  one  of  these  spirits  to  *  spend  the  day ;'  that 
trial  of  the  soul  to  both  hostess  and  guest !  There  is  no  use  in 
offering  books  to  such  visiters ;  if  reading  were  their  habitual  amuse- 
ment, they  would  have  some  ideas.  An  Annual  might  do  indeed ; 
but  the  best  resource  is  usually  some  new  pattern  in  worsteds  or 
crochet,  and,  if  this  does  not  do,  to  follow  Miss  Patty  Proud's  exam- 
ple— take  the  lady  up  stairs,  and  show  her  your  finery.  We  are 
speaking  of  course  of  feminine  bores,  for  happily  gentlemen  are  never 
asked  to  spend  the  day ;  and  if  they  were,  they  would  probably 
soon  get  sound  asleep  upon  the  sofa.  When  you  in  despair  pro- 
pose a  nap  to  your  silent  lady-friend,  she  is  sure  to  tell  you  that  she 
cannot  sleep  in  the  day-time ;  it  is  evidently  her  forte  to  be  the 
cause  of  sleep  in  others. 

Two  young  girls  together  are  said  to  be  like  the  side-bones  of  a 
chicken,  "  because  they  always  have  a  merry-thought  between  them." 
And  truly  the  giggling  which  generally  ensues  when  a  few  young  ladies 
get  together  would  seem  to  justify  the  old  riddle.  It  is  hard  to  say 
whether  what  is  said  on  these  occasions  is  conversation  or  not.  To 
settle  the  point  it  would  be  necessary  to  go  into  an  analysis  of  their 
talk,  which  were  foreign  to  our  present  purpose,  as  well  as  difficult 
for  want  of  material,  since  no  one  has  ever  reported  what  is  said 
under  cover  of  so  much  laugh.  To  count  the  bubbles  on  the  surface 


78  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


of  boiling  water  beneath  a  cloud  of  steam,  were  perhaps  as  easy,  and 
as  useful.  But  every  age  has  its  pleasures,  and  we  must  not  quarrel 
with  this.  Sober  days  do  not  await  our  bidding. 

Ball-room  talk  is  equally  beyond  our  pale.  Its  ineffable  nothing- 
ness defies  us.  Fortunately  conversation  is  not  the  characteristic 
pleasure  of  the  ball-room.  The  West  Indian  lady  understood  this, 
who  exclaimed  impatiently  to  a  Mend  of  ours  who  had  wearied  her 
with  trying  to  find  a  subject  on  which  she  would  open  her  lips — 
"  Cha,  cha !  I  no  come  here  for  chatter,  I  come  here  for  dance !" 
Happy  were  it  if  her  notion  were  generally  adopted.  The  harp  and 
violin  discourse  more  excellent  music  than  can  be  expected  from 
unhappy  beaux,  who,  not  very  well  furnished  with  ideas  at  the  out- 
set, must  belabor  their  beseeching  brains  for  something  to  say  to  ten 
young  ladies  in  succession,  all  of  different  disposition,  character,  and 
education,  and  probably  no  better  fitted  for  extempore  conversation 
than  their  partners.  The  swain  too  often  takes  refuge  in  a  silly 
strain  of  compliment,  which  makes  the  lady  feel  silly  and  look  silly  ; 
and  which,  if  she  be  silly  enough  to  believe  it  sincere,  may,  to  say 
the  least,  not  add  to  her  wisdom.  What  a  perversion,  to  call  this 
conversation,  where  no  one  word  on  either  side  is  the  sincere  expres- 
sion of  the  inward  thought ! 

The  dulness  of  our  social  visits  is  one  of  the  commonest  subjects 
of  complaint.  It  is  an  evil  not  only  recognised  but  guarded  against, 
indirectly ;  for  we  often  see  a  good  deal  of  ingenuity  exerted  to  elude 
an  invitation  without  absolute  falsehood  or  the  certainty  of  giving 
offence.  Unless  some  special  inducement  is  offered,  people  feel,  that 
they  will  have  a  far  better  chance  for  enjoyment  at  home,  with  their 
ordinary  pursuits,  or  among  their  books,  than  in  a  talking  circle,  who 
will  hardly,  by  any  chince,  say  a  word  that  will  either  please"  or 
instruct.  Dulness  becomes  thus  a  formidable  ally  of  dissipation ;  the 


CONVERSATION.  >jg 

\ 

votaries  of  vicious  pleasure  point  with  scorn  at  our  stupid  circles  and 
affected  coteries.  "  If  your  boasted  morality,"  say  they,  "  can  afford 
nothing  better  than  this,  in  the  way  of  social  enjoyment,  you  must 
excuse  us  if  we  prefer  a  mode  of  life  which  affords  pleasure,  at  least. 
If  excess  is  the  bane  of  ours,  inanity  and  hollowness  are  no  less  the 
reproach  of  yours."  Can  we  reply  to  this  taunt  by  an  appeal  to 
matters  of  fact  ?  Can  we  silence  the  scorner  of  our  boasted  sobriety 
by  assuring  him  that  we  enjoy  the  social  intercourse  he  condemns  ? 
Can  we  quote  in  refutation  of  his  opinion  passages  of  value  from  last 
evening's  conversation,  or  declare  that  our  feelings  of  general  benevo- 
lence and  charity  are  kept  warm  by  our  social  habits  ? 

We  are  always  sensible  of  the  pleasure  of  conversation  when  it  is 
what  it  should  be  ;  but  we  do  not  find  it  easy  to  prescribe  rules  for  it. 
There  are,  indeed,  plenty  of  formal  rules,  but  they  are  too  formal. 
We  do  not  find  that  agreeable  people  talk  by  them,  and  we  say  such 
an  one  has  a  gift  for  conversation,  as  if  confessing  that  rules  have 
little  to  tlo  with  the  matter.  And  indeed,  how  could  we  talk  by 
rule  any  more  than  we  can  breathe  by  rule  ?  We  never  think  of 
counting  or  measuring  the  delicious  inhalations  of  a  rural  walk,  or 
those  which  sustain  the  life  of  a'  year.  Talking  is  quite  as  natural 
and  almost  as  necessary  as  breathing,  for  the  few  taciturn  people  we 
me.et  are  only  enough  to  prove  the  universality  of  the  impulse.  Of . 
course  we  put  out  of  the  question  those  who  are  silent  through  sul- 
kiness  or  stupidity,  or  by  design,  and  consider  only  people  who 
behave  naturally.  The  deaf-mute,  unprovided  by  nature  with  tha 
facility  for  it  enjoyed  by  others,  show  by  their  strenuous  efforts  to 
find  a  substitute,  how  dearly  they  prize  the  power  of  communicating 
their  sentiments  to  those  about  them.  Even  Laura  Bridgman,  says 
Dr.  Howe,  to  show  the  strength  of  the  impulse  to  clothe  our  thoughts 
in  words,  '  often  soliloquizes  in  the  finger  language,  slow  and  tedious 


80  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


as  it  is.'  It  is  only  we  who  have  free  use  of  the  excellent  gift  of 
speech  who  treat  it  with  neglect,  not  so  much  indeed  by  disuse,  as 
by  abuse, 

The  impulse  to  impart  our  thoughts  is  so  strong  that  it  is  pro- 
verbially necessary  to  keep  a  guard  over  our  lips  lest  we  tell  what 
should  not  be  told.  To  what  a  pitch  then  must  our  sophistication 
by  false  notions  of  society  have  arisen,  when  we  become  able  to  talk 
for  hours  the  very  thing  we  do  not  think,  pouring  out  empty  words, 
while  the  under-current  of  our  thoughts  set  in  a  quite  different  direc- 
tion. The  'bald,  disjointed  chat'  thus  produced,  is  what  we  call 
*  conversation  in  company,'  and  no  wonder  we  dread  *  company  !' 
A  diet  of  stale  crumbs  and  tepid  water  would  be  quite  as  agreeable* 
Listen  to  the  conversation  of  a  morning  call. 

First  the  health  branch. 

c  How  do  you  do — and  how  is  your  mother — and  is  your  sister 
quite  well — and  has  your  aunt  recovered  ?' — an  unexceptionable  strain 
of  talk  in  itself,  but  usually  a  mere  form,  from  the  fact  that  we  have 
had  daily  opportunities  of  ascertaining  the  condition  of  these  good 
people,  and  know  that  nothing  of  consequence  can  have  befallen 
them  without  our  knowledge.*  It  wears  the  semblance  of  friendly 
feeling  and  human  sympathy,  however,  so  we  must  not  condemn  it 
when  it  includes  one  grain  of  sincerity.  But  we  proceed.  *  My  own 
health  has  been  miserable.  I  have  had— — '  And  here  follows  a 
train  of  symptoms  minutely  given,  even  as  to  days  and  hours,  with 
the  fears  of  friends  and  the  judgment  of  physicians,  until  the  listener 
yawns  so  perceptibly  that  it  is  impossible  to  proceed.  The  children's 
cases  come  next,  and  it  is  well  if  their  afflictions  do  not  occupy  the 
remainder  of  the  visit. 

Next  comes  the  weather  branch,  if  there  be  time  enough. 

*  What  dreadful  weather  we  have  had !     It  is  enough  to  kill  any 


CONVERSATION.  81 


body.  The  thermometer  fell  ten  degrees  on  Saturday.  My  brother, 
who  has  been  all  over  the  world,  says  that  ours  is  the  very  worst 
climate  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  Nobody  can  be  well  in  such  a 
climate,"  <fec.,  until  it  is  made  perfectly  clear  that  Providence,  either 
through  especial  spite  or  general  incapacity,  is  doing  its  worst  for  us 
in  the  way  of  weather. 

From  this  gracious  topic  we  go  perhaps  to  the  last  party. 
*  Were  you  there  ?     Oh,  certainly — don't  you  remember  our  talk- 
ing together  for  some  time  ?     Did  you  ever  see  any  one  look  so 

much  like  a  fright  as  Mrs.  A ?     And  what  a  fool  Mr.  G 

is  !     Oh,  I  do  think  going  to  parties  such  a  bore !    I  never  go  when 

I  can  decently  refuse,  but  I  have  declined  Mrs.  B 's  invitations 

so  often  that  I  thought  I  must  go  for  once.  The  gentlemen  have 
the  best  of  it ;  they  are  not  obliged  to  appear  before  supper-time,' 
&c.  &c.  If  there  be  any  more  time,  dress  fills  it  to  overflowing.  The 
fashions  never  fail  to  afford  a  multitude  of  remarks,  criticisms,  and 
ecstasies,  very  advantageous  to  the  milliners,  but  tiresome  enough  in 
themselves  to  all  but  the  initiated. 

It  may  be  remarked  that  the  subjects  here  adverted  to  make  up 
the  conversation  of  ladies  only,  but  we  were  speaking  of  morning 
calls,  which  gentlemen  never  make.  The  gentlemen  have  one  staple 
subject  on  all  occasions — that  of  party  politics  ;  and  this  their  chosen 
theme  doubtless  appears  to  them  far  more  dignified  and  worthy  of 
attention  than  those  which  occupy  the  thoughts  of  women. 
Whether  it  be  so  in  the  manner  in  which  it  is  ordinarily  handled, 
may  admit  of  questions,  but  it  is  a  question  which  we  shall  not 
presume  to  touch  here.  If  there  be  anything  which  is  held  sacred 
in  our  country,  it  is  the  propensity  of  the  men  to  talk  politics.  It  is 
difficult  to  obtain  belief  for  the  truth  that  one  rarely  hears  anything 
said  of  politics  in  good  society  abroad.  "  What  other  subjects  can 


82  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


men  talk  about?"  One  would  think  there  were  no  intermediate 
topics  of  interest  between  this  most  earthy  one  and  the  '  celestial 
colloquy  sublime,"  once  held  in  Paradise :  but  in  considering 
what  is  or  what  is  not  the  conversation  which  makes  social  gather- 
ing delightful,  which  wakes  up  the  best  powers  of  the  mind,  calls 
forth  the  half-formed  thoughts  that  had  else  slumbered  in  a  sort  of 
chaos  for  want  of  the  vivifying  influence,  arouses  all  the  most 
generous  instincts  of  the  heart,  and  furnishes  the  most  soul-stirring 
pleasure  that  we  are  capable  of  enjoying — we  cannot  conscientiously 
assign  to  party  politics  a  much  more  dignified  place  in  our  list  of 
subjects  than  to  the  weather,  or  our  bodily  "condition,  though  we 
confess  it  to  rank  above  dress,  which  must  be  allowed  to  be  below 
everything  else  that  it  is  permissible  to  talk  of  in  society. 

The  faults-  and  follies  of  our  neighbors  and  friends  afford,  perhaps, 
the  most  fertile  of  all  subjects  for  conversation,  when  it  is  at  all 
spontaneous.  The  study  of  character  is  one  of  the  pleasures  of  life, 
but  we  are  not  particularly  fond  of  exercising  it  upon  ourselves,  or  at 
least  of  divulging  the  results  of  our  practice.  As  surgeons  choose 
the  lifeless  body  for  their  demonstrations,  so  we  try  our  skill  upon 
the  absent,  and,  as  he  can  neither  resist  nor  reply,  that  is  very 
pleasant  and  advantageous — to  the  operator,  who,  not  being  forced 
to  defend  his  positions,  may  expatiate  at  will,  and  having  set  out  with 
a  -general  theory  or  proposition,  may  easily,  by  the  aid  of  a  littlo 
imagination,  make  out  a  consistent  view  of  the  whole  case.  One 
inconvenience  attending  the  use  of  this  class  of  material  for  conver- 
sation, is  the  danger  that  the  person  dissected  may  not  relish  our 
view  of  his  case  as  reported  to  him  by  some  good-natured  friend.  His 
vanity  may  hinder  his  appreciating  Vmr  discernment ;  he  may  mistake 
for  spite  or  envy  or  unkindliness  the  keen  perception  on  which  we 
pride  ourselves ;  he  may  not  be  able  to  consider  himself  as  an  ab- 


CONVERSATION.  83 


straction,  in  which  light,  of  course,  we  considered  him  when  we 
demonstrated  ujfon  him,  and  we  may  thus  lose  his  friendship  just  as 
we  flattered  ourselves  we  understood  him  thoroughly. 

Then  again  the  habit  of  discussing  character  in  ordinary  conver- 
sation is  apt  to  be  a  little  chilling,  all  round.  It  is  hardly  possible 
to  feel  quite  at  ease  and  to  behave  unconstrainedly,  if  we  know  that 
as  soon  as  we  depart  we  shall  be  coolly  analyzed  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  remain.  "We  are  not  quite  so  confident  of  the  impartiality 
and  discernment  of  others  as  of  our  own,  and  we  would  rather  not 
feel  that  every  word  and  action  of  ours  is  being  treasured  up  as 
material  for  future  sketches  of  character.  So  that  this  style  of  con- 
versation, while  it  exercises  the  intellect,  is  likely  to  harden  the  heart, 
and  instead  of  diffusing  an  affectionate  confidence  through  social 
intercourse,  will  probably  end  in  putting  each  individual  secretly  on 
the  defensive.  Some  frigid  soul  devised  the  maxim,  '  Live  always 
with  your  friend  as  if  he  might  one  day  be  your  enemy  ;"  and  those 
must  have  kindred  notions  of  the  spirit  of  society,  who  consider  the 
peculiarities  and  shades  of  character  of  their  friends  matter  for  habi- 
tual discussion. 

There  is  indeed  one  way  of  avoiding  the  obvious  danger  of  this 
theme, — that  of  giving  offence  to  the  absent, — namely,  by  making 
our  discussion  the  vehicle  of  praise  only.  But  is  not  this  apt  to  be- 
come a  little  tiresome  ?  In  some  families  most  of  the  conversation 
with  visitors — we  can  judge  of  nothing  further — consists  in  eulogies 
upon  absent  members  of  the  household  or  connexion.  Unhappily 
there  is  hardly  enough  disinterested  sympathy  in  human  nature  to 
make  this  agreeable  to  persons  who  have  not  the  advantage  of  belong- 
ing to  those  exemplary  races.  The  perfections  of  those  we  love  are 
a  most  fascinating  subject  for  private  contemplation,  but  they  are 
hardly  the  topic  for  entertaining  our  guests  withal.  Nor  are  the  in- 


84  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


dividuals  eulogized  in  all  respects  gainers  by  tliis  enthusiastic  enume- 
ration of  their  excellences.  Being  human,  they  have  probably  still 
some  remains  of  human  imperfection,  and  these  will  be  very  apt  to 
corne  up  in  full  size  before  the  memory  or  imagination  of  the  listener, 
who  is  driven  to  seek  a  refuge  for  his  self-love  from  the  painful  con- 
trast suggested  by  so  much  virtue.  On  the  whole  then,  we  conclude 
that  personal  discussion,  even  in  this  honied  phase,  is  not  very  ad- 
vantageous to  the  main  end  of  conversation,  as  a  sweetener  of  the 
soul  and  a  cultivator  of  the  social  affections. 

Egotism  may  be  reckoned  a  kindred  vice  of  conversation,  equally 
tiresome,  but  not  so  bad  in  itself,  because  it  is  truer.  Egotism  is 
either  the  pouring  forth  of  a  vanity  too  egregious  to  be  politic ;  or  the 
effort  of  a  desire  to  please  to  bring  up  its  claims  to  notice  ;  or  the 
mere  morbid  and  painful  action  of  an  unhealthy  mind,  attempting 
to  share  its  troubles  and  vexations  with  others,  or  to  enforce  the  at- 
tention which  such  minds  are  apt  to  think  wrongfully  withheld.  In 
either  of  these  cases,  tediousness  is  its  worst  effect.  We  fly  an 
egotist,  but  we  do  not  fear  or  hate  him.  If  vanity  prompt  his  fault, 
we  smile  secretly  at  the  weakness ;  if  a  desire  to  make  an  impression, 
we  revenge  ourselves  on  his  tiresomeness  by  contrasting  in  our  own 
minds  his  real  with  his  imaginary  claims.  It  is  of  such  as  he  that 
the  common  people  say  '  I  would  like  to  buy  him  at  my  price 
and  sell  him  at  his  own,'  and  the  saying  arose  from  the  frequency  of 
the  appearance  of  such  characters  in  society.  Our  daily  intercourse 
must  be  select  indeed  if  it  include  not  more  than  one  unwise  talkor 
of  this  class.  The  ardor  of  our  social  competition  brings  them  forth 
in  Egyptian  abundance,  but  as  then*  numbers  increase  their  object  is 
more  and  more  difficult  of  attainment ;  since  society  is  forced  to  in- 
vent expedients  for  avoiding  them  or  cutting  them  short,  while  its 
appreciation  of  their  claims  is  in  inverse  proportion  to  the  pertinacity 


CONVERSATION.  85 


with  which  they  are  urged.  Not  that  this  form  of  egotism  is  always 
so  obvious  as  to  be  offensive  to  the  casual  observer.  It  has  a  thou- 
sand degrees  and  disguises  ;  and  in  its  more  subtle  and  less  suspected 
shape,  enters  more  or  less  into  conversation  generally.  One  cannot 
analyze  one's  own  talk  very  faithfully  without  perceiving  traces  of 
this  tendency  to  self-recommendation.  In  that  case  we  console  our- 
selves by  thinking  either  that  we  desire  to  be  valued,  in  order  that 
we  may  be  in  a  position  to  do  good  to  others,  or  that  we  seek  merely 
to  do  ourselves  justice  in  the  eyes  of  those  whose  discernment  is 
not  keen  enpugh  to  form  a  correct  opinion  of  us  for  themselves ;  or 
at  least  that  to  love  to  be  loved  is  at  any  rate  no  very  reprehensible 
source  of  action.  Let  us  have  candor  and  kindliness  enough  to 
make  the  same  apologies  for  other  people. 

A  still  less  agreeable  class  of  talkers  are  they  who  seem  to  listen 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  entrap  the  speaker.  They  lie  in  wait 
for-  petty  errors  and  apparent  discrepancies ;  things  whose  consistency 
might  be  vindicated  after  a  world  of  words,  but  which  we  have  a 
right  to  expect  will  be  taken  for  granted  as  correct  by  those  who 
know  us  to  have  a  regard  for  truth.  These  are  minute  and  matter- 
of  fact  people,  in  whose  minds  the  main  idea  is  of  no  more  impor- 
tance than  the  most  insignificant  accessory.  They  would  stop  you 
in  the  midst  of'  a  recital  of  harrowing  interest  to  say, '  But  I  thought 
you  said  it  was  four  o'clock !'  and  if  you  should  not  stop  and  explain 
that  although  one  portion  of  the  occurrence  took  place  at  fom* 
o'clock,  another  was  necessarily  deferred  until  half-past  four,  would 
secretly  result  in  the  conviction  that  you  were  a  person  who  allowed 
the  imagination  full  play  at  the  expense  of  truth,  or  perhaps  set  you 
idown  an  absolute  story-steller.  To  talk  with  such  people  is  subject- 
ing one's  self  to  the  labor  of  proving  a  continual  negative.  This 
caviling  habit  is  completly  contradictory  of  the  genial  and  confiding 


86  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


spirit  which  is  the  life  of  conversation.  It  is  insulting  to  the  speaker, 
whose  flow  of  talk  returns  indignantly  upon  himself,  to  await  listen- 
ers who  are  too  conscious  of  their  own  love  of  truth  lightly  to  sus- 
pect another  of  disregarding  it.  It  is  found  generally  either  among 
persons  whose  pursuits  have  led  them  into  close  investigation  of 
minute  points  ;  among  hard  and  coarse  business  men  or  sharp  law- 
yers ;  among  the  self-righteous  of  either  sex ;  among  people  who 
being  devoid  of  imagination,  are  habitually  suspicious  of  those  who 
appear  to  possess  any  ;  and,  finally,  among  those  who,  having  very 
little  regard  for  truth,  seek  to  bolster  up  a  tottering  reputation  in 
this  respect  by  unusual  keenness  in  sifting  the  words  of  others. 
These  last  have  naturally  the  advantage  of  all  the  rest,  since  there 
is  no  pocket  so  hard  to  pick  as  a  pickpocket's. 

With  these  enemies  of  conversation  we  may  rank  such  as  frown 
upon  every  little  playful  sally,  snapping  at  each  unconsidered  word, 
and  pretending  to  be  puzzled  by  every  witticism,  in  the  spirit  of  him 
who  asked,  of  a  poem,  '  What  does  it  prove  ?  The  truth  is,  folly  is 
almost  as  requisite  to  pleasant  general  conversation  as  wisdom. 
Highly  condensed  aliment  is  healthful  neither  for  mind  nor  body. 
As  a  little  bran  left  in  our  bread  makes  it  more  wholesome,  so  does 
a  little  harmless  folly  in  our  talk.  Those  who  despise  it  are  very 
apt  to  suffer  and  look  glum  under  a  mental  dyspepsia,  and  they 
deserve  it.  Until  philosophers  become  predominant  in  society,  wis- 
dom will  not  be  best  commended  to  popularity  by  showing  it  as  the 
antagonist  of  mirth ;  and  when  they  are  so,  they  will  show  how 
cheerful  wise  men  can  be.  Were  our  laughing  muscles  given  us  for 
nothing  ?  ,  When  Solomon  compared  the  laughter  of  fools  to  '  the 
crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot,'  he  was  thinking  of  wicked  fools, 
undoubtedly ;  there  are  many  such,  and  their  laughter  is  anything 
but  cheerful.  But  some  gloomy  people  say, ( There  is  too  much 


CONVERSATION.  87 


sin  and  sorrow  in  the  world  for  Christian  people  to  be  anything  but 
sad.'  To  this  we  would  assent  with  all  our  hearts,  if  habitual  sad- 
ness were  in  itself  likely  to  better  the  state  of  things.  It  is  true 
that,  by  the  sadness  of  the  countenance  the  heart  is  made  better, 
viz.,  that  unmingled  prosperity  and  happiness  is  apt  to  make  our 
poor  humanity  cold  and  unfeeling,  leaving  dormant  those  tender 
sympathies  with  all  human  woe,  which  any  heart-touching  sorrow  is 
sure  to  awaken  ;  but  if  this  be  construed  into  a  disparagement  of 
innocent  mirth  at  proper  times,  we  must  rebut  it  by  another  proverb 
of  the  same  teacher  of  wisdom — '  A  merry  heart  is  a  continual  feast,' 
a  feast,  we  venture  to  add,  quite  as  much  to  those  about  it  as  to 
itself.  We  have  no  patience  with  those  who  despise  mirth  as  mirth ; 
who  fix  a  cold  glance  upon  the  vivacious  talker  of  pleasant  nothings, 
as  who  should  say, '  Behold  a  zany  !'  One  might  almost  be  tempted 
to  remind  these  unhappy  wise  men  that  the  most  immovably  grave 
of  all  creatures  is  the  ass.  The  best  wisdom  is  humane  and  humble, 
not  stilted  and  self-glorifying.  "We  would  not  recommend  to  a  man 
of  sense  to  be  '  the  fiddle  of  the  company,'  but  there  is  at  least 
equal  and  less  amiable  folly  in  gathering  one's  self  up  solicitously, 
lest  any  one  in  the  melee  of  conversation  should  tread  upon  the 
corns  of  our  dignity.  Wisdom  that  is  rich  and  ample  can  afford 
some  derogation. 

The  French  have  furnished  us — in  return  for  the  words  Home, 
Comfort,  and  others  expressive  of  simple,  tender,  and  healthy  ideas 
— with  several  words  whose  origin  refers  rather  to  the  genius  or 
spirit  of  their  own  social  life.  Among  these  are  Badinage  and  Per- 
siflage ;  the  former  meaning  simply  light,  frivolous  talk,  the  latter  as 
much  and  more,  viz  :  the  trick  of  making  another  say  that  which 
renders  himself  ridiculous.  From  the  former  is  derived  our  word 
Banter,  which  Dr.  Johnson  calls  '  a  barbarous  word,  without  ety- 


88  THE   EVENING    BOOK. 


mology,'  unless  it  be  so  derived.  Our  word  Raillery  is  defined  as 
4  satirical  merriment,'  and  To  Rally,  as  '  to  treat  with  slight  contempt.' 

There  is  not  one  of  these  words  which,  closely  defined,  conveys  an 
agreeable  idea ;  yet  they  are  the  only  words  by  which  to  express  a 
certain  style  of  conversation  which  seems  to  find  favor  with  some 
people.  It  is  sometimes  called  *  sharp  shooting' — perhaps  because  it 
occasions  wincing,  if  not  wounds ;  sometimes  *  sparring,'  a  term 
which  smacks  of  the  noble  science  of  which  Hyer  and  Sullivan  are 
the  prominent  professors  just  now.  '  Sparring  for  love,'  however, 
requires  the  glovas,  but  this  is  apt  to  be  forgotten  in  conversational 
pugilistics. 

We  have  sometimes  wished  we  could  discover — perhaps  by  some 
Asmodean  power  of  peering  into  the  recesses  of  peopled  minds — 
how  large  a  proportion  of  the  world  really  relish  this  amusement. 
We  speak  not  of  those  who  have  the  a<j[vantage  in  the  contest,  for 
they  seem  to  enjoy  it ;  but  of  the  far  greater  class — those  who  simply 
suffer  it,  or  who  are  induced  to  retort,  in  self-defence.  There  is 
seldom  an  equal  match  on  these  occasions  ;  and  when  it  does  happen, 
the  game  is  up  directly — showing  pretty  plainly  what  is  at  least  one 
of  the  elements  of  the  pleasure  it  gives. 

To  express  an  opinion  counter  to  this  tone  of  conversation,  is  to 
subject  one's  self  to  a  charge  of  moroseness,  touchiness,  or  want  of 
sympathy,  so  nearly  has  a  habit  of  joking  come  to  be  confounded 
with  cheerfulness  and  good  humor.  This  suppositions  character  it 
owes  to  the  fact  that  nobody  likes  to  own  he  is  hit ;  and  thus  pride 
prevents  the  party  who  secretly  feels  personal  joking  to  be  any  thing 
but  pleasant,  from  seeming  to  disapprove  it.  The  victor,  flushed 
with  his  little  triumph,  is  quite  sure  of  his  own  good  humor,  and  so 
the  thing  goes  on,  unchallenged. 

We  mu^t  not  omit  to  say  that  it  is  the  habit  of  jesting,  rather 


CONVERSATION.  89 


than  the  thing  itself,  that  appears  to  us  questionable  on  various 
accounts.  Conversation  would  lose  as  much,  if  an  occasional  joke 
were  made  contraband,  as  it  does  by  the  ceaseless  effort  at  sharp- 
shooting  which  sometimes  spoils  it.  As  well  paralyze  the  laughing 
muscles  at  once,  as  forbid  all  use  of  them  not  justifiable  by  sober 
argument.  On  the  other  hand,  as  nothing  makes  a  man  seem  so 
much  like  a  fool  as  to  be  always  laughing,  so  nothing  takes  away  so 
completely  the  zest  of  all  jokes  as  a  continual  or  sustained  fire  of 
them*  In  truth,  a  hearty  relish  for  pleasantry  is  the  very  ground  for 
a  remonstrance  against  being  crammed  with  it. 

Equally  does  the  power  of  enjoying  wit  find  itself  aggrieved  by 
the  amount  of  failures  involved  in  a  multitude  of  attempts.  Where 
the  desire  of  saying  what  are  called  "  good"  things  is  become 
chronic,  these  failures  are  usually  at  least  as  ten  to  one,  while  the 
tolerable  hits  are  in  general  of  a  grade  no  higher  than  punning,  or 
word-catching.  Even  in  that  line  they  are  mostly  inferior  to  the 
manufactured  jokes  of  the  Sunday  papers,  and  far  below  the  smart 
things  in  Burton's  play-bills.  "  Rien  nefait  dire — rien  ne  fait  fair e, 
autant  de  sottises,  que  le  desir  de  montrer  de  Vesprit"  says  the 
Abbe  Du  Bois.  While  an  occasional  scintillation,  or,  what  is  better, 
a  subdued  infusion  of  wit,  enlivens  the  social  circle,  gives  life  to  the 
heaviest  subject,  or  may  turn  the  edge  of  the  most  impracticable 
temper,  the  sole  effect  of  habitual  joking,  even  putting  aside  the 
personality  into  which  it  almost  always  runs,  is  to  lower  the  tone  of 
conversation,  and  to  throw  away  every  advantage  which  belongs  to 
cultivation,  taste,  information,  and  judgment. 

So  completely  is  the  ordinary  play  of  this  kind  of  smartness  in- 
dependent of  all  cultivation  and  mental  resources,  that  it  seems 
strange  it  can  possess  any  fascination  for  superior  people.  Yet  men 
love  contest,  even  where  they  are  sure  to  come  off  losers — in  cases 


90  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


where  victory  is  as  bad  as  defeat ;  and  the  keen  sportsman  will  wade 
through  mud  and  mire  in  pursuit  of  game  so  small  that  his  shot  will 
blow  it  to  atoms. 

Thus  far  we  have  spoken  of  raillery  as  a  matter  of  taste ;  we  must 
go  a  little  farther. 

Raillery  implies  personality,  of  course,  and  as  such  is  certainly 
contrary  to  the  canons  of  good  society.  But  the  canons  of  good 
society  are  intended  as  a  substitute  for  the  exercise  of  Christian  love. 
We  may  ask,  then,  in  pursuance  of  the  subject  under  a  more  serious 
aspect,  whether  the  habit  of  exercising  our  wit  at  the  expense  of 
others  does  not  imply,  when  severely  tested,  a  certain  hardness,  and 
lack  of  that  tender  sympathy  which  pervades  a  heart  penetrated  and 
subdued  by  religion  ?  Religion,  it  is  true,  asks  no  mawkish  insipidity 
of  talk,  in  which  wit  shall  be  forbidden,  and  humor  disallowed,  and 
folly  unsatirized,  and  wrong  undenounced.  But  it  does  demand  the 
greatest  and  the  minutest  attention  to  the  law  of  love ;  a  resolute 
forbearance  of  aught  that  can  give  an  unnecessary  pang,  or  even  un- 
easiness, to  any  human  creature.  The  old  saying  "  He  would  rather 
lose  his  friend  than  his  jest,"  recognizes  the  wounding  power  of 
raillery.  It  is  true  that  "  one  ought  to  be  able  to  take  a  joke,"  but 
it  is  equally  true  that  the  responsibility  of  the  case  .rests  with  the 
joker.  It  would  perhaps  be  too  severe  to  apply  here  the  text  which 
has  sometimes  been  brought  to  our  mind  by  things  which  we  have 
heard  said  in  conversation — "  The  fool  scattereth  about  firebrands, 
arrows  and  death,  and  saith,  am  I  not  in  sport  ?"  but  since  we  know 
not  where  our  neighbor's  quivering  nerve  may  lie — and  still  more  if 
we  do  know — how  shall  we  clear  ourselves  of  the  imputation  of  un- 
feeling vanity,  if  we  exercise  our  wit  at  his  cost  ?  Besides,  as  jests 
are  notoriously  used  to  cover  up  reproofs,  how  can  any  one  be 
expected  to  know  whether  the  "  true  word"  lie  at  the  bottom  or  not  ? 


CONVERSATION.  91 


This  reminds  us  that  some  persons  justify  raillery  on  the  ground 
that  one  can  say  things  in  jest  that  it  would  not  do  to  say  in  earnest, 
so  that  one  may  wield  a  moral  engine  with  the  air  of  play.  It  cannot 
be  denied  that  truths  sometimes  flash  upon  us  amid  the  keen  glanc- 
ings  of  our  friend's  wit,  but  is  it  commended  to  us,  under  such  circum- 
stances ?  We  may  use  it,  but  are  we  made  better  by  it  ?  The 
qualities  which  fit  a  man  for  telling  unwelcome  truths  are,  first,  a  deep 
sense  of  duty,  secondly,  the  truest  love  and  sympathy,  and  thirdly, 
the  tender  and  watchful  delicacy  which  these  inspire.  When  we 
feel  disposed  to  tell  a  friend  trying  truths  without  these  prepara- 
tives, we  may  be  pretty  sure  that  we  are  not  in  a  condition  to  do  him 
good.  How  many  a  friendship  is  cooled,  how  many  an  enmity 
nourished,  by  mistakes  on  this  point,  none  but  the  Searcher  of  hearts 
can  know,  for  pride  forbids  all  confession  of  this  description  of 
wounds. 

The  simple  truth,  too — that  precious  jewel  of  all  conversation — is 
often  the  sacrifice  of  this  keen  encounter  of  wits.  Many  an  apology, 
many  a  retraction,  testifies  to  this.  Rather  than  miss  the  opportunity 
of  the  sharp  repartee,  we  go  on  to  say  what  we  never  thought,  and, 
induced  by  pride,  maintain  the  wrong,  till  we  surprise  others  into 
expressions  equally  unjustifiable.  Truth  is  hard  to  manage,  after  we 
are  once  fairly  within  the  gale  of  raillery. 

We  are  far  from  believing  that  a  shade  of  malicious  intention  be- 
longs to  badinage,  as  ordinarily  practised.  It  suggests  itself  as  the 
most  innocent  thing  in  the  world,  and  only  shows  its  real  nature  in 
certain  emergencies.  Children  often  play  at  tapping  one  another — 
love-taps,  we  call  them — in  great  good  humor,  which  lasts  until  one 
unlucky  tap  smarts  a  little.  The  return  to  this  is  a  little  harder, 
and — every  parent  can  finish  the  story.  This  is  precisely  the  course 
with  half  the  raillery  of  conversation.  It  begins  in  sport  and  ends  in 


92  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


earnest,  and  the  observer  sometimes  suffers  quite  as  much  uneasiness 
as  the  worsted  party.  This  as  spoil  is  about  as  rational  and  pleasant 
as  it  would  be  to  play  at  pulling  hair — beginning  with  single  hairs, 
producing  rather  an  agreeable  titillation — and  ending  in  whole  hand- 
fulls.  .:&f* 

Those  who  insist  that  to  proscribe  raillery  is  to  legislate  against  fun 
betray  a  sad  paucity  of  resource.  Surely  the  wide  range  of  subjects 
of  harmless  drollery  will  suffice,  without  calling  in  the  aid  of  person- 
ality. Even  if  satire  be  essential,  folly  is  multiform ;  anomalies — 
laughable  blunders,  matter  of  every  day  observation.  But  above 
all,  there  is  the  boundless  field  of  literary  allusion,  to  give  elegance 
to  wit  and  delicacy  to  satire.  Conversation  need  never  resort  to 
bitterness  for  the  sake  of  piquancy,  while  such  materials  exist  that 
only  the  unfurnished  mind  can  lack  opportunity  to  be  innocently 
brilliant.  Indeed  a  recourse  to  what  is  not  innocent  is  a  confession 
of  poverty. 

When  we  consider  the  immense  usefulness,  as  well  as  the  inex- 
haustible pleasure  of  conversation,  perhaps  the  most  serious  objec- 
tion to  a  habit  of  badinage  lies  in  its  tendency  to  lower  the 
conversational  tone  and  to  deprive  our  talk  of  any  possibility  of 
seriousness.  Who  has  not  felt  the  vexation  of  an  interloping  joke, 
which  sent  all  solid  and  sweet  thoughts  flying  at  once,  and  substituted 
in  their  place  a  forced  brood  of  puns,  literally  "  tedious  as  a  twice- 
tcld  tale,'  since  a  new  one  has  hardly  been  heard  since  Hook's  and 
Hood's  days !  Shakspeare  knew  the  feeling  right  well,  and 
expresed  it  roundly — '  Answer  not  to  me  with  a  fool-born  jest !' 
though,  like  other  sinners,  he  knew  the  right  in  this  respect  better 
than  he  did  it.  Who  has  courage  to  attempt  the  starting  of  a 
serious  thought  after  a  feu  d>  artifice  of  popping  wit  ?  or  if  one  had 
courage,  who  has  the  power  ?  Tone  is  everything  in  conversation  ; 


CONVERSATION.  93 


what  right  has  any  one  to  fix  this,  and  overpc  ,ver  all  choice  in 
others  ? 

There  is  talk  which  sweetens  the  soul ;  there  are  conversations 
which  leave  an  odor  in  the  memory  as  if  an  angel  had  been  there. 
Truths  are  elicited  in  the  free  and  quiet  interchange  of  thought, 
which  we  would  not  part  with  for  all  the  small  wit  ever  struck  out 
of  mercurial  brains.  The  pleasure  of  conversation  is  one  which 
belongs  to  all  circumstances,  and  lasts  when  all  other  pleasures  have 
lost  their  zest.  It  seems  to  us  a  thing  too  sacred  to  be  wantonly 
spoiled.  Nobody  loves  *  foolish  talking  and  jesting'  when  his  heart 
is  in  its  best  state ;  the  badin — the  persifleur,  who  puts  snuff  into  our 
dish  of  chat,  or  sets  all  our  moral  teeth  on  edge  with  his  saw-filing 
smartness,  is  the  last  man  to  relish  such  things  when  he  himself  is 
in  another  humor.  He  takes  the  liberty  of  breaking  the  chain  of 
your  ideas,  but  he  allows  you  no  corresponding  license.  He  is  both 
ways  imperious. 

Touchy  people  are  to  be  dreaded  in  conversation.  Their  propen- 
sity is  to  find  out,  in  the  discourse  of  those  about  them,  points  of 
offence  wholly  impalpable  to  all  but  themselves,  by  a  power  like 
that  of  the  magnet,  which  will  cover  itself  with  particles  of  steel 
where  no  other  affinity  could  detect  their  presence.-  Woe  to  the 
good-natured,  unsuspicious  sayer  of  nothings,  in  such  company  !  It 
will  be  hard  ta  convince  him  that  terrible  insinuations  have  been 
discovered  by  unwrapping  his  gentlest  meanings.  Does  he  speak 
of  somebody's  kindness  to  the  poor?  Mrs.  Sensitive  is  suddenly 
beclouded,  for  she  remembers  (what  he  does  not)  that  she  has 
Just  been  inveighing  against  indiscriminate  charity.  Does  he  wish 
for  rain  ?  It  is  because  he  knows  Mrs.  Sensitive  is  depending  upon 
fair  weather  for  a  party  of  pleasure.  Does  he  express  indignation 
at  some  instance  of  dishonesty?  Why  need  he  go  out  of  Ivis  way 


94  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


to  bring  to  mind  the  defalcation  of  Mrs.  Sensitive's  cousin  twenty 
years  ago  ?  [f  he  venture  upon  any  subject  of  interest,  he  is  sure 
to  touch  upon  a  tender  spot ;  if  he  carefully  adhere  to  generalities, 
he  is  reserving  his  better  things  until  he  has  more  agreeable  society. 
It  is  astonishing  to  hear  with  what  bitterness  some  people  will  dwell 
upon  these  constructive  offences — crimes  made  by  the  law  as  it 
were.  A  disposition  of  this  sort  is  a  fatal  bar  to  the  flow  of  conver- 
sation. Our  ordinary  ideas  will  not  endure  such  sifting  and  weigh- 
ing. By  the  time  we  have  turned  a  thought  round  and  round,  to 
be  sure  that  it  has  no  ridge  or  corner  of  offence,  whatever  point  it  had 
is  sure  to  have  been  worn  off".  We  must  leave  the  touchy  person 
out  of  our  select  conversational  circle,  and  we  do  it  with  the  less  regret, 
because  he  is  almost  sure  to  be  found*  deficient  in  other  requisites  for 
companionship  besides  good-humor.  Intelligence,  cultivation,  and 
acquaintance  with  society  are  sure  antidotes  of  touchiness,  which  is 
only  one  phase  of  egotism. 

An  overbearing  manner  is  hard  to  describe,  yet  it  is  one 
of  the  most  intolerable  in  society,  and  so  common  a  one  that  we 
learn  almost  to  dread  meeting  a  person  of  any  pretension,  until  we 
have  ascertained  whether  he  is  in  the  habit  of  allowing  anybody  to 
have  an  opinion  besides  himself — that  is  to  say,  whether  he  is  a 
quack  or  a  savant,  for  thoroughness  is  always  modest.  Overbearing 
people  are  often  unobserving  enough  to  be  gratified  #t  the  silence 
in  which,  after  a  few  efforts,  we  listen  to  their  conversation  ;  but  if 
vanity  and  insolence  did  not  blind  them,  they  would  perceive  that 
the  fool  who  walks  through  a  garden,  cutting  off  flowers  with  a 
switch,  that  were  far  better  applied  to  his  own  shoulders,  has  exactly 
the  same  reason  to  be  proud.  Conscious  merit  will  not  condescend 
to  struggle  against  this  species  of  arrogance ;  it  rather  waits  quietly 
until  the  nuisance  be  overpast. 


CONVERSATION.  95 


Your  incessant  talker  is  a  migratory  headache,  possessing  few 
claims  to  our  regard,  unless  it  be  as  the  discoverer  of  perpetual 
motion.  There  is  somewhere  in  his  mind  an  invisible  and  endless 
thread,  about  which  all  sorts  of  subjects  crystalize — facts,  theories, 
opinions ; .  sentiments,  prognostics,  and  fancies — without  the  slightest 
arrangement  that  the  hearer  can  discover ;  yet,  possessing  as  a  whole 
so  wonderful  a  continuity,  that  although  it  might  break  in  any  given 
spot  just,  as  well  as  in  any  other,  it  is  impossible  to  break  it  any- 
where without  force.  Sometimes  the  thread  may  be  loaded  only 
with  "  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing,"  but  we  often  find  it  rich  with  gems 
of  all  hues,  but  so  ill-assorted,  so  tastelessly  huddled  together,  and 
so  rapidly  flashed  before  our  eyes,  that  we  have  no  leisure  to  admire 
or  discriminate,  and  experience  fatigue  instead  of  delight.  These  are 
the  most  provoking  talkers  in  the  world.  They  make  us  hate  what 
we  love,  and  run  away  from  what  ought  to  delight  us.  The  intellect 
might  bear  the  flood,  but  the  nerves  sink  under  it.  The  incessant 
talker  is  in  fact  a  mere  talking  machine,  for  if  he  had  the  tact,  and 
sympathy,  and  spiritual  discernment  that  belongs  to  enlightened 
humanity,  he  could  not  but  perceive  the  weariness  of  his  hearers. 
And  his  foible  is  not  usually  nothing  more  than  an  incontinence  of 
words  ;  it  is  more  frequently  an  effect  of  self-conceit.  He  hss  a 
secret  opinion,  not  only  that  he  has  matter  of  more  interest  to  com- 
municate, but  that  he  can  impart  it  better  than  anybody  else,  and 
he  never  suspects  why  his  audience  drop  away  as  fast  as  they  can. 
The  more  we  love  conversation,  the  sooner  we  tire  of  an  unmerciful 
talker ;  for  he  would  substitute  monologue,  dramatic — it  may  be, 
or  instructive,  but  still  monologue — for  the  free  exchange  of 
thought. 

These  remarks  apply  only  to  the  habitual  talker — him  who  talks 
only  for  his  own  pleasure,  and  not  that  of  the  company.     There 


96  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


are  people — though  we  do  not  often  meet  with  them — in  whose 
presence  we  are  involuntarily  hushed,  because  we  fear  to  lose  a 
word.  These  are  not  the  men  to  overwhelm  us  unawares.  The 
flood  gates  of  their  minds  ask  some  trouble  in  lifting,  but  fall  back 
easily  into  their  place.  Their  discourse  is  only  a  better  kind  of  con- 
versation, suggesting  in  the,  listeners'  minds  thoughts  that  bud, 
blossom,  and  bear  fruit  in  silence ;  thoughts  for  which  our  common 
words  would  be  but  lumbering  vehicles.  The  vanity  must  be  resist- 
less indeed  that  finds  such  listening  tiresome. 

Blessing  and  bane  are  so  closely  coupled  in  all  matters  pertaining 
to  the  good  things  of  life,  that  we  need  nof  wonder  that  many  ills 
flow  out  of  every  abuse  of  the  great  gift  of  speech.  Talk  is  sponta-' 
neous  as  breathing,  as  we  have  said,  but  it  is  far  from  being  always 
as  inoffensive.  White-handed  Brinvilliers  poisoned  a  few  people 
who  were  soon  out  of  their  misery,  and  she  has  been  for  ages  held 
up  to  execration.  Have  we  never  seen  a  woman  who  has  poisoned 
twice  as  many,  for  life  and  death,  and  who  yet  passes  for  a  good 
sort  of  person  ?  '  apt  to  speak  her  mind,  but  meaning  no  harm,' — 
with  so  little  appearance  of  premeditation  or  evil  intent  do  her 
cruellest  stabs  come.  She  does  but  report  what  she  has  heard — or 
she  had  it  from  good  authority — or  she  did  not  say  more  than 
other  said !  In  the  course  of  a  morning  visit  she  will  skewer  you 
a  whole  street  of  her  *  friends'  like  a  lunch  of  kibaubs,  and  all 
peppered  for  the  most  fastidious  palate.  And  it  must  not  be  thought 
that  women  are  the  only  sinners  in  this  regard.  There  are  men, 
too,  who,  without  the  excuse  of  vacuity  or  idleness,  take  a  dreadful 
pleasure  in  stripping  from  their  compeers  the  garb  in  which  they 
appear  to  the  world,  and  this  under  a  pretence  of  love  of  truth  and 
justice  !  These  disinterested  champions  of  truth  and  justice  are  the 
last  men  to  lay  bare  their  own  conscious  secret  faults  to  the  public  * 


CONVERSATION.  97 


eye  for  the  public  good.  Let  us  pray  that  the  thing  upon  which  we 
value  ourselves  most  may  never  be  mentioned  in  their  hearing  !  Be 
it  wit  or  wealth,  beauty  or  good  humor,  humanity,  steadfastness, 
sincerity,  or  delicacy ;  pre-eminence  in  fashion  or  in  learning,  suc- 
cess in  literature,  patience  in  sorrow,  honest  effort  in  adversity,  or 
•what  not — though  it  be  the  immediate  jewel  of  our  souls,  no  card- 
house  was  ever  demolished  with  greater  coolness  than  will  this 
favorite  wing  or  turret  of  our  character  be  by  the  cool  breath  of  the 
habitual  detractor.  He  '  speaks  daggers,  and  every  word  stabs.' 

But  our  present  purpose  is  to  deal  rather  with  the  aesthetics  of  this 
subject.  To  treat  adequately  the  morals  of  conversation  would 
require  more  space  than  we  can  give  to  the  present  paper.  Its 
importance  as  a  moral  engine  can  hardly  be  overrated,  while  it  may 
be,  and  too  often  is,  a  caterer  for  the  seven  deadly  sins.  Let  those 
who  are  disposed  to  think  conversation  a  matter  of  indifference,  go 
carefully  through  the  Book  of  Proverbs  alone,  and  see  what  place 
the  wise  king  assigns  to  it  among  the  elements  of  social  life,  morals, 
and  religion.  Good  words,  evil  words,  many  words,  few  words, 
words  of  cheer,  of  contention,  of  anger,  of  boasting,  of  deceit,  of 
impiety — these  form  almost  the  burden  of  his  song.  '  A  wholesome 
tongue  is  a  tree  of  life  P  What  language  can  be  stronger  ?  What 
more  encouraging  to  boldness  of  speech  in  the  cause  of  goodness  ? 
And  the  denunciations  of  those  who  dare  profane  the  sacred  gift  are 
equally  powerful. 

Among  the  minor  morals  of  conversation  we  must  not  omit  to 
notice  that  much  talking  in  mixed'  company  is  seldom  safe.  We 
mean  that  excited  strain  of  talking  in  which  some  people  indulge, 
without  much  reflection  or  any  decided  intention  for  good  or  ill. 
The  judgment  is  too  often  asleep  at  such  times ;  we  say  things 
under  excitement  which  we  would  gladly  disclaim  afterwards, 


98  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


but  through  shame  of  inconsistency ;  for  excitement  gives  things  an 
aspect  foreign  to  reality,  and  while  we  are  under  its  influence,  we 
are  very  liable  to  be  mistaken  in  our  company,  and  so  commit 
imprudences  for  which  we  suffer  more  severely  than  we  deserve. 
Va»ity,  too,  takes  advantage  of  these  overflowing  moments  to 
make  us  ridiculous.  Mankind  must  become  kinder  and  more 
candidly  indulgent  before  it  will  be  safe  to  talk  much  in  mixed 
company,  where  humors  and  biases  differ  as  much  as  complexions. 

Idle  people  will  hardly  ever  be  found  to  converse  tolerably. 
They  have  no  4  hived  honey  of  the  soul'  to  bring  out  for  the  com- 
mon good.  Give  us  rather  *  men  of  one  idea,'  though  we  confess 
them  to  be  often  tiresome.  They  at  least  say  something,  which  idlers 
seldom  do.  Earnestness  may  not  always  be  graceful,  but  it  is  inspir- 
ing. Putting  aside  all  charlatanry,  the  man  whose  whole  soul  is 
in  his  subject  will  interest  if  he  cannot  convince  us.  Faith  is  more 
potent  than  savoir  faire.  In  conversation  -as  in  the  pulpit,  the  man 
who  softly  utters  sleek  and  perfumed  nothings  would  be  gladly 
exchanged,  by  all  healthy-minded  listeners,  for  a  backwoodsman 
without  a  coat,  who  has  something  to  say  and  says  it  boldly. 
Jemmy  Jessamys  are  out  of  fashion,  in  every  department. 

How  rich  is  the  discourse  of  those  who,  after  having  taken  an 
active  share  in  life,  are  inspired  by  sympathy  and  love  to  give  forth 
the  result  of  store  and  fusion  !  We  linger  over  their  words  as  over 
precious  wine,  or  as  before  the  gorgeous  pomp  of  sunset,  when 
though  masses  of  cloud  be  gathering,  they  have  -a  given  glojty  from 
above,  all  the  grander  for  the  coming  darkness.  How  we  thank 
them  in  our  inmost  souls  for  their  wisdom,  which  we  feel  to  have 
been  gathered  '  through  much  tribulation.'  They  have  lived  for  us, 
not  for  themselves  ;  they  are  giving  us  gratuitously  what  cost  them — 
life !  We  do  well  to  prize  their  great  and  good  words, — heart- 


CONVERSATION.  99 

drops  they  are  if  rightly  valued ;  to  carry  our  children  to  hear 
them,  that  they  may  learn  to  aspire  to  old  age  and  not  dread  it. 
The  extinguished  torch  hi  the  hand  of  weeping  love  is  indeed  fitting 
emblem  for  the  tombs  of  such  ! 

Travellers  may  be  good  talkers,  if  they  have  carried  with  them 
or  brought  home  a  genial  philosophy,  and  tact  enough  to  know 
when  particulars  oecome  tedious.  But  the  satires  called  forth  by 
travelled  parrots — 

The  proud,  conceited,  talking  spark 
Returning  from  his  finished  tour, 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before, 

as  the  old  fable  has  it,  have  almost  silenced  travellers  of  every 
degree.  It  is  a  point  of  pride,  now,  for  those  who  have  landed  on 
every  shore  and  weathered  every  climate,  to  be  conspicuously  taci- 
turn :  '  nobody's  a  bit  the  wiser'  for  all  their  journeyings.  This  is 
a  sort  of  fraud,  doubtless.  We  have  a  right  to  expect  that  those 
who  have  seen  what  we  shall  never  see  will  give  us  of  their  abun- 
dance, without  asking  pride's  leave  on  all  occasions.  Unfortunately 
the  knowledge  of  human  nature  acquired  in  travel  leads  us  to  be 
very  careful  how  we  seem  to  fancy  we  can  instruct,  or  even  that  we 
possess  any  peculiar  material  for  conversation..  In  order  to  talk 
agreeably,  it  is  necessary  first  that  we  should  acquire  knowledge, 
secondly,  that  we  should  carefully  conceal .  it — i.  e.,  give  only  the 
results  of  it.  There  must  be  economy  in  the  dispensation  of  our 
best  things. 

A  habit  of  studying  character  and  of  classifying  the  specimens 
we  encounter,  affords  a  good  foundation  for  conversation.  It  is  on 
this  account  that  clergymen  are  generally  good  talkers,  perhaps  in 
general  the  best,  at  least  in  this  countiy.  They  have  commonly  a 


100  THE    EVENING   BOOK 


certain  tranquillity  of  manner,  which  is,  in  our  judgment,  one  of  the 
essentials  of  an  agreeable  style  of  conversation  ;  they  pass  a  good 
deal  of  time  in  private  study,  and  are  usually  conversant  with 
literary  subjects  to  a  certain  extent ;  their  professional  avocations 
lead  their  thoughts  among  high  things  ;  and  still  more,  as  we  have 
said,  the  necessity  for  studying  human  life  and  character,  fits  them 
in  a  peculiar  degree  for  the  quiet  exercise  of  those  faculties  which 
must  act  freely  when  we  talk  well.  There  must  be  patience  for 
pauses  as  well  as  fervor  in  speech ;  self-control  under  opposition  as 
well  as  earnestness  in  advocacy;  indulgence  for  ignorance,  indulgence 
even  for  stolidity.  And  in  this  enumeration  we  are  still  adhering 
to  the  aesthetics  of  the  subject,  for  mere  good  breeding  requires  all 
these.  The  best  discourse  (as  to  substance)  is  nullified  or  worse,  if 
all  that  goes,  to  make  up  that  undefinable,  comprehensive,  lovely, 
indefinite  word,  good-humor,  be  not  present. 

The  mention  of  a  knowledge  of  human  nature,  as  a  requisite  for 
conversational  power,  might  suggest  the  fitness  of  the  law  as  a 
school  for  talkers,  but  the  very  accuracy  which  ought  to  be  an  advan- 
tage, is  sometimes  found  inconvenient.  The  off-hand  expression  of 
sentiment  must  necessarily  be  partial  and  imperfect.  What  we  say 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment  must  be  received  in  the  spirit  rather 
than  in  the  letter,  and  a  habit  of  cross-examining  or  sifting,  of  spe- 
cial pleading,  or  even  of  sarcastic  comment,  is  anything  but  favora- 
ble to  the  tone  of  equal  conversation.  Freedom  of  expression, 
without  which  conversation  becomes  unworthy  of  its  name,  soon 
leads  to  recrimination,  unless  a  generous  toleration  give  it  room  and 
kindly  atmosphere.  Opposition  gives  life,  for  there  is  something  in 
perpetual  assent  that  soon  wearies  us ;  yet  the  spirit  arising  from 
the  support  of  opposing  sentiments  must  not  betray  us  into  acridity 
or  personality,  as  it  is  too  apt  to  do.  If  our  arrows  be  feathered 


CONVERSATION.  101 


with  wit  they  must  be  tipped  with  love,  or  at  least  benevolence.  If 
argument  grow  strenuous  it  must  all  the  more  be  guarded  against 
venom,  or  we  offend  against  all  the  social  amenities. 

Our  appreciation  of  the  pleasure  of  conversation  is  so  high ;  it 
forms  so  important  an  item  in  our  list  of  the  most  desirable  plea- 
sures of  life ;  we  are  so  impressed  with  its  momentous  value  as  i 
moral  engine,  and  so  grieved  to  see  it  profaned  every  day  by  emj  '  • 
ness,  ignorance,  and  ill-nature,  that  we  could  find  it  in  our  hearts  to 
bestow  all  our  tediousness  upon  our  readers  on  this  theme.  But  if 
we  should  say  much  more,  we  should  be  transgressing  one  of  our  own 
rules  of  talk,  viz.,  that  patience  for  pauses  is  as  necessary  as  fervor 
of  SDeech. 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  BE  ? 

0 

IT  has  been  said,  even  by  some  of  our  friends,  that  we,  as  a 
nation,  have  no  manners  of  our  own ;  and  again,  that  the  manners 
of  the  roughest  among  our  western  settlers  are  the  only  natural  and 
simply  expressive  ones  as  yet  developed  among  us.  Those  who 
would  disparage  us  and  our  republican  theory  and  practice,  insist 
that  these  rough,  negligent,  uncivil  manners  are  the  proper  growth 
of  our  institutions,  and  must  more  and  more  characterize  us  as  a 
people,  except  so  far  as  we  imitate  the  over-polished  nations  of  the 
old  world.  It  is  argued  that  a  state  of  things  so  fluctuating  in  the 
matter  of  individual  wealth — where  the  continual  subdivision  of  pro- 
perty must  forever  prevent  the  social  ascendancy  of  any  class  which 
might  serve  as  a  reservoir  of  elegance,  and  a  standard  for  the  general 
manners — must  tend  towards  a  barbarous  arrogance,  and  the  lack 
of  those  accomplishments  and  amenities  which,  in  aristocratic  coun- 
tries, being  cultivated  by  the  privileged  classes  who  desire  to  dignify 
their  leisure,  serve  as  an  example  to  those  immediately  below  those 
classes,  and  so  on,  through  the  descending  stfale,  as  an  incentive  to 
all. 


THE    EVENING   BOOK.  JQ3 

f  ^*f 

If  we  allow  that  such  prognostics  are  well  founded,  it  must  be 
after  conceding  that  there  is  no  standard  of  manners  less  fluctuating 
than  Fashion — that   there    are  no  rules  of  behavior  of  universal 
application — that,  in  short,  imitation  is  our  only  resort     This  is  too 
weak  and  narrow,  nay,  too  vulgar  an  idea  to  be  entertained  for  a 
moment.    ^What !  can  we  believe  that  the  progress  of  society — the 
approach  of  the  human  race  in  knowledge  and  goodness  to  the 
Image  in  which  it  was  made — is  left  at  the  mercy  of  a  few  persons — 
not  the  wisest  or  best — who  call  themselves  the  World  !.    Has  this 
class  ever  yet  been  selected  by  Providence  as  the  immediate  instru- 
ment of  any  of  its  great  designs  for  the  good  of  the  whole  ?     Has 
it  not  always  rather  been  a  merely  tolerated  excrescence  on  the  body 
politic,    destined    to   be   gradually   absorbed   as  the  great  whole 
advances  to  perfect  health  ?     We  cannot  grant  that  this  soi-disant 
world  is  empowered  to  give  laws  on  any  subject  more  important 
than  the  tie  of  a  cravat,  the  depth  of  a  curtsey,  or  the  dividing  line 
between  two  shades  of  the  same  color,  one  of  which  shah1    be 
"  exquisite,"  while  the  other  is  "  horrid."    We  can  allow  its  judgment 
in  a  dispute  among  milliners,  which  can  make  her  patient  look  most 
unlike  nature,  or  between  two  mantua-makers,  who  shall  produce 
the  best  resemblance  to  the  inhuman  figures  in  a  French  print  of 
the  fashions.     If  a  question  arise  as  to  what  extent  of  arrogance  in 
a  lady  may  be  lawful,  and  how  far  she  may  go  without  being  con- 
sidered an  encroacher  upon  others'  rights  of  haughtiness,  we  are 
willing  the  "  world  "  should  decide,  being  the  party  interested  ;  or 
if  we  would  know  how  to  crush  the  young  aspiring  of  some  heart 
heaven-directed  toward  the  living  Truth,  we  shall  certainly  ask  its 
advice.     But  in  ascertaining  the  principles  on  which,  if  at  all,  the 
great  human  family  may  be  indeed  a  house  of  brothers,  we  must 
look  further  and  higher  for  authority.    Ail  the  maxims  of  this  same 


104  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


*  world'  are  short  sighted  and  ignoble,  content  with  reference  to  the 
single  day  that  is  passing,  and  that  only  as  far  as  itself  is  concerned. 
For  the  eternal  Future  and  the  undistinguished  crowd  it  cares 
nothing ;  its  timidity  and  indolence'  shun  the  thought  of  the  one, 
its  selfish  feebleness  cannot  afford  any  recognition  of  the  other. 

It  is  strange  that  we  Americans  should  bow  as  we  do  to  any  such 
self-appointed  tribunal.  The  foundations  of  this  great  country  of 
ours — of  which  we  are,  under  certain  circumstances,  apt  to  boast  a 
little  more  than  is  becoming — were  laid  in  professions  of  equality 
and  brotherhood,  which  it  required  a  good  deal  of  philosophy  even 
to  adopt,  still  more  to  put  in  honest  practice.  But  we  did  adopt 
them,  and  not  by  the  acclamations  of  a  few  demagogues,  as  so  many 
specious  measures  are  adopted,  but  by  the  concurrent  impulse  of  the 
whole  national  mind,  under  the  guidance  of  the  wise  and  good  men 
sent  by  Heaven  to  our  aid  in  that  fateful  moment.  We  adopted,  as 
a  people,  sentiments  which  derive  their  origin  and  their  sanction 
from  Christianity,  and  this  when  we  were  suffering  under  the  legiti- 
mate effects  of  opposite  ones.  "We  had  learned,  by  sad -contrast, 
what  precious  things  were  justice  and  humanity,  and  fellow-feeling, 
and  we  chose  them  for  our  watchwords — a  choice  whose  sincerity 
many  a  vaunt  since  that  day  of  trial  and  enthusiasm  has  attested. 

Our  nation,  as  a  nation  is  less  satisfied  than  formerly  with  the 
wisdom  of  the  original  choice.  Far  from  growing  less  democratic, 
\ve  become  every  year  more  so.  No  step  backwards  is  considered 
possible,  even  by  the  most  anxious  conservative.  Every  modification 
of  the  law  tends  to  a  stricter  and  more  literal  equality  of  rights  and 
privileges.  It  requires  all  the  power  of  the  South,  exerted  with  the 
energy  of  a  life-struggle,  to  keep  even  the  blacks  in  a  degraded  caste, 
so  all  pervasive  is  the  influence  of  our  political  creed  upon  our  social 
practice.  For  the  first  time  since  the  creation,  is  exhibited  the 
spectacle  of  an  equality  almost  Christian.  The  servant  is  as  Lis 


WHAT    SHALL    WE    BE?  105 


master,  and  in  truth,  is  sometimes  not  a  little  disposed  to  change 
places  with  him ;  indeed  if  it  were  not  for  daily  importations  from 
monarchial  countries,  we  of  the  North  should  have  no  servants  at 
all.  The  continual  subdivision  of  property  by  law,  where  primogeni- 
ture has  no  privileges,  obliges  the  sons  or  grandsons  of  the  rich  to 
exert  themselves  for  the  acquisition  of  the  means  of  life,  and  so  puts 
them  at  least  on  a  level  with  the  descendants  of  the  poor — generally 
rather  below  them  in  the  capacity  to  acquire,  since  habits  of  frugality 
and  self-denial  are  much  more  likely  to  result  in  competence,  than 
the  more  indulgent  ones  which  wealth  begets. 

This  state  of  things  has  had  a  marked  effect  on  our  character  and 
manners  as  individuals.  We  are  a  good-natured  and  brotherly 
people ;  we  like  to  be  closely  bound  together  by  ties  of  family,  and 
neighborhood,  business,  church,  and  politics.  A  man  must  be  very 
contemptible  or  odious,  if,  after  he  has  once  been  respected  or  liked 
among  us,  any  misfortune  happening  to  him  is  not  felt  with  sym- 
pathy by  the  public ;  and  remedied  as  far  as  may  be.  I  do  not 
mean  that  misfortunes  happening  to  individuals  are  felt  as  they 
ought  to  be  in  a  community  of  Christians,  who  are  bound  by  their 
allegiance  to  their  Master,  to  consider  the  suffering  of  one  member 
as  the  suffering  of  the  whole  body ;  but  I  have  often  thought  that 
there  was  more  public  sympathy  and  generous  aid  to  the  unfortu- 
nate here  than  I .  had  ever  heard  of  or  been  abl*  to  discover  any 
where  else.  At  the  West,  if  a  man's  house  burn  down,  his  neigh- 
bors immediately  join  and  build  him  another ;  and  not  content  with 
this,  scour  the  country  for  forty  miles  round,  if  necessary,  to  stock  it 
with  comforts.  If  a  poor  woman  die  and  leave  helpless  little  ones, 
somebody  is  sure  to  adopt  them  and  bring  them  up,  not  on  the  cold 
pittance  of  a  grudging  charity,  but  as  sons  and  daughters.  And  in 
spite  of  the  keenness  of  business-competition,  so  inimical  to  some  of 


106  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


the  virtues,  where  is  found  so  warm  a  mercantile  sympathy  as  in  our 
great  commercial  cities  ? 

Why  then  should  there  be  any  Americans  who  desire  to  return  to 
the  hollow  and  unchristian  tone  of  society  which  is  the  inevitable 
result  of  unjust  and  unrighteous  social  distinctions  ?  As  a  nation, 
we  have  put  our  hand  to  the  plough  and  cannot  look  back  if  we 
would ;  we  have  chosen  a  path  which  our  sons  and  daughters  may 
pursue  with  firmness  and  dignity,  leading  the  great  procession  in 
whose  ranks  all  mankind  are  now  so  anxious  to  enrol  themselves. 
Wherever  we  go,  we  are  looked  upon  as  the  representatives  of  the 
principle  of  self-government.  Our  actions  and  even  our  manners, 
are  examined  as  tests  both  of  the  soundness  of  our  political  maxims, 
and  the  sincerity  and  intelligence  with  which  we  adopt  them.  We 
cannot  persuade  any  body  to  consider  our  national  ideas  as  a 
separate  thing  from  our  national  manners.  We  have  voluntarily 
placed  all  spurious  dignity  out  of  our  reach  by  the  most  solemn  acts 
of  renunciation;  making  it  forever  disgraceful  in  an  American 
citizen  to  claim  for  himself  any  honor  which  he  has  not  earned. 
Some  foreigner  has  said  that  the  only  aristocracy  of  the  United 
States  was  to  be  found  in  the  families  of  our  revolutionary  heroes, 
civil  and  military ;  but  the  nation  ignores  even  these  claims,  if  the 
descendant  show  in  his  owji  character  no  mark  of  the  worthiness  of 
his  ancestry.  We  have  absolutely  no  sinecures,  even  of  fame ;  every 
man  must  earn  whatever  consideration  he  enjoys.  The  richest  men 
the  country*  has  ever  possessed,  have  stood  exactly  where  they 
deserved  to  stand,  in  public  estimation,  their  wealth  passing  for 
nothing,  or  worse  than  nothing,  in  the  account.  Our  Presidents, 
after  they  have  fulfilled  their  term  of  office  as  public  servants,  retire 
into  the  ranks  of  common  men,  without  the  least  vestige  of  their 

O 

kingly  power  clinging  to  them,  even  in  the  shape  of  the  smallest 


WHAT    SHALL    WE    BE?  107 


provision  for  their  wants,  which  might  place  them  above  the  neces- 
sity of  exertion.  If  they  or  their  families  should  claim  any  peculiar 
position  in  society  on  account  of  past  honors,  the  whole  country 
would  deride  their  folly  and  inconsistency.  Yet  there  are  not  want- 
ing those  among  us  who,  with  no  claim  beyond  a  little  wealth — and 
that  too,  depending  on  a  mercantile  basis,  proverbially  fleeting, — 
attempt  to  imitate  on  a  small  scale  the  aristocratic  insolence  which 
they  observe  in  the  English ;  forsake  the  true  and  wholesome  notions 
of  kindness  and  consideration  for  others  in  which  their  parents  were 
educated,  and  practice  the  coldness,  the  disregard,  the  egotism,  which 
have  been  the  natural  growth  of  society  in  which  caste  has  been 
recognized  for  thousands  of  years. 

The  true  glory  of  the  American  character  at  home  or  abroad,  is 
simplicity,  truth,  kindness,  and  a  strict  regard  to  the  rights  and  feel- 
ings of  others.  Whenever  the  conventional  standards  of  other 
nations  conflict  with  these,  they  should  be  repudiated  by  us,  kow- 
ever  fascinating  they  may  seem  to  our  pride.  An  Englishman  may 
with  less  blame  be  self-inclosed,  haughty  and  overbearing.  He  has 
not'only  been  taught  pride,  but  he  has  been  taught  to  be  proud  of 
his  pride ;  while  if  an  American  be  mis-proud,  he  has  but  his  own 
perverse  littleness  of  scrul  to  blame.  Not  only  do  individual  English- 
men and  Englishwomen  indulge  themselves  in  a  lofty  and  self- 
forgetful  tone,  but  the  oracles  of  the  nation,  the  very  pulpits,  encour- 
age the  unholy  illusion.  "  Condescension"  is  preached  as  a  virtue  to 
the  rich,  "  submission"  and  "  deference"  to  the  poor.  A  late  num- 
ber of  the  Quarterly  Review,  in  a  series  of  remarks  on  the  subject  of 
governesses,  which  are  intended  to  be  highly  humane  and  generous 
in  their  tone,  after  describing  a  governess  as  "  a  being  who  is  our 
equal  in  birth,  manners  and  education,  but  our  inferior  in  worldly 
wealth,"  remarks — "The  line  which  severs  a  governess  from  her 


108  THE    EVENING   BOOK 


employers  is  not  one  which  will  tako  care  of  itself,  as  in  the  case  of 
a  servant.  If  she  sits  at  table  she  does  not  shock  you — if  she  opens 
her  mouth  she  does  not  distress  you — her  appearance  and  manne* 
are  likely  to  be  as  good  as  your  own — her  education  rather  bettei 
there  is  nothing  upon  the  face  of  the  thing  to  stamp  her  as  havir.j. 
been  called  to  a  different  state  of  life  from  that  in  which  it  ha,' 
pleased  God  to  place  you,  and  therefore  the  distinction  has  to  b«. 
kept  up  by  a  fictitious  barrier."  "  She  is  a  burden  and  restrain! 
in  society,  as  all  must  be  who  are  placed  ostensibly  at  the  samo 
table,  and  yet  are  forbidden  to  help  themselves  or  to  be  helped  to 
the  same  viands."  (!)  "  She  must  to  all  intents  and  purposes  livo 
alone,  or  she  transgresses  that  invisible  but  rigid  line  which  alono 
establishes  the  distance  between  herself  and  her  employers."  This 
state  of  things  is  so  entirely  according  to  the  reviewer's  view  of  right , 
that  he  adds  a  protest  against  being  suspected  of  "  a  hope,  even  n 
wish"  to  see  it  remedied.  "  We  must  ever  keep  them  in  a  sort  of 
isolation,  for  it  is  the  only  means  for  maintaining  that  distance  whicli 
the  reserve  of  English  manners,  and  the  decorum  of  English  fami- 
lies exact."  If  these  be  the  teachers  what  are  we  to  expect  of  tho 
taught!  Can  Americans  adopt  such  sentiments  and  copy  such 
manners  without  belying  their  parentage  and'renouncing  the  princi- 
ples which  made  them  what  they  are  ?  Shall  Christian  men  and 
women  among  us  be  dazzled  by  English  splendor  into  forgetfulness 
of  the  odious  and  unfeeling  worldliness  implied  in  such  views  of  life  ? 
The  account  of  wretchedness,  insanity  and  death,  which  are  the  portion 
of  a  dreadful  percentage  of  English  governesses  from  this  one  cause 
of  wounded  feeling,  should  be  read  in  connection  with  the  reviewer's 
cool  speculations  on  the  subject,  in  order  to  obtain  a  just  idea  of  the 
dreadful  self-forgetfulness  into  which  people  may  run  who  prefer  the 
pampering  of  their  pride  to  the  practice  of  justice  and  humanity. 


WHAT    SHALL    WE    BE?  109 


And  after  reading  this,  every  American  can  draw  his  own  conclu- 
sions as  to  the  desirableness  of  transplanting  to  our  soil  this  root  of 
bitterness,  sin  and  ruin. 

A  marked  difference  between  the  manners  of  Englishmen  and 
Americans,  is  shown  in  their  respective  behavior  under  provocation 
or  injury.  An  American  is. at  least  as  quick  to  feel  an  intentional 
insult  as  another  man ; — at  least  as  prompt  in  resenting  it  as  a  Chris- 
tian man  may  lawfully  be.  But  if  a  servant  misbehave,  or  if  some 
dispute  arise,  it  will  not  be  natural  to  him  to  resort  to  his  fist 
^or  his  boot ;  and  if  he  should,  in  a  momentary  gust  of  passion, 
so  far  forget  himself,  he  will  not  boast  of  the  feat  afterwards,  com- 
placently constituting  himself  judge,  jury,  and  executioner  in  his  own 
case,  without  for  a  moment  suspecting  that  the  question  of  right  and 
wrong  may  have  had  two  sides.  But  for  an  Englishman  to  act  thus 
is  nothing  remarkable,  though  he  will  take  care  that  the  abused  per- 
son is  in  a  position  to  be  silenced  or  bought  off  with  a  bribe,  which 
no  American  could  be,  The  rights  of  others  operate  as  a  complete 
restraint  upon  such  outbursts  of  passion  with  us. 

I  would  not  be  understood  to  mean  that  in  England  the  law  is 
not  made  to  protect  the  inferior  in  such  cases,  or  that  Englishmen 
are  worse  natured  than  other  men.  I  am  speaking  of  manners,  as 
modified  by  certain  social  peculiarities.  The  injured  party  may 
claim  redress  at  the  law,  but  the  law,  interpreted  under  the  power- 
ful influence  of  social  prejudice,  is  not  a  very  safe  resort  for  the  poor 
man,  who  is  ruined  if  he  fail  to  establish  his  charge ;  and,  practically, 
the  superior  in  fortune  does  indulge  his  temper  more  freely,  from 
knowing  that  any  ordinary  injury  can  be  compensated  in  money, 
which  could  never  be  the  case  in  the  United  States. 

Female  imitation  of  English  aristocratic  manners  among  us,  is 
generally  confined  to  matters  of  dress,  show,  equipage  and  fashions 


HO  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


of  seeing  company.  We  do  not  imitate  our  neighbors  where  they 
are  most  worthy  of  imitation — in  their  solid  and  elegant  cultivation ; 
in  their  national  habit  of  ample  exercise  in  the  open  air,  or  the  excel- 
lently simple  and  healthy  treatment  of  children.  Our  ambition  is 
limited  to  matters  connected  with  "  style,"  and  whatever  tends  to 
the  establishment  of  distinctions  in  society.  We  go  to  the  French 
for  dress,  and  to  the  English  for  manners — a  wise  choice  if  it  were 
necessaiy  to  ape  any  body ;  how  much  wiser  would  be  a  firm  and 
modest  originality  ;  a  simplicity  founded  upon  principle ;  modera- 
tion in  expense,  for  the  express  purpose  of  being  liberal  where 
liberality  is  honorable  ;  plainness  of  dress,  resulting  at  once  from 
good  taste  and  from  religious  self-denial,  for  the  sake  of  others  to 
whom  our  flaunting  array  may  be  a  mortification  or  a  snare  ;  plain- 
ness of  living,  lest  our  splendor  should  separate  between  us  and  the 
good  to  whom  God  has  not  seen  fit  to  give  riches  ;  a  direct  truth- 
fulness of  speech,  as  far  from  the  language  of  unmeaning  compliment 
as  from  the  rudeness  which  bespeaks  want  of  sympathy.  In  short, 
should  we  not,  as  a  nation,  be  happier  and  more  respectable,  if  we 
carried  out,  heartily  but  quietly,  in  our  habits  and  manners,  the 
grand  and  simple  ideas  to  which  our  country  owes  her  position 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth  ? 

Can  any  one  believe  that  we  should  sink  in  the  world's  estimation 
by  living  consistently  ?  Are  our  ambassadors  treated  with  less  con- 
sideration than  those  of  other  powers,  when  they  appear  in  republi- 
can simplicity  in  the  midst  of  stars  and  orders  ?  They  h<lve  the 
reality  of  respect,  however  unwillingly  rendered.  Franklin  appeared 
at  the  most  splendid  court  in  Europe  in  his  homely  woollen  hose  ; 
was  he  the  man  of  least  consideration  there?  The  notion  of 
republican  equality  was  now  then,  and  this  outward  plainness  was 
understood  to  be  its  proper  interpretation  ;  but  the  power  of  mind 


WHAT    SHALL   WE  BE?  Ill 


was  never  more  fully  recognized.  Europe  is  attempting  to  follow  us 
to  our  own  ground — why  should  we  wish  to  go  hack  to  hers  ?  She 
has  long  ago  reached  what  we  seem  to  he  striving  after — the  height 
of  luxurious  and  ungodly  li ving — and  proved  its  unsatisfactory  emp- 
tiness. When  we  compete  with  her  here,  we  place  ourselves  at  dis- 
advantage ;  for  we  cannot  equal  her,  in  centuries  of  effort.  Artificial 
manners  were  in  her  the  natural  growth  of  a  thousand  circum- 
stances ;  in  us  they  are  contrary  to  the  natural  course  of  things,  and 
a  mere  aping  of  what  dazzles  us.  Would  we  might  rather  fall  in 
love  with  truth  and  heartiness  ! 

The  impossibility  of  equalling  an  old  and  highly  refined  nation  in 
the  realities  of  splendor,  is  a  reason  which  should  operate  on  our 
pride,  at  least.  We  may  purchase  a  fac  simile  of  the  furniture  and 
equipage  of  an  English  Duke ;  we  may  buy  his  cook  and  give  his 
dinners  ;  or  we  may  provide  scenery,  dresses  and  decorations  for  his 
duchess's  soiree  or  reception — but  what  have  we  done  towards  re- 
flecting the  style  of  his  household  ?  Where  is  the  high  breeding, 
the  self-poise,  the  at-home  air,  among  these  things  ?  If  we  would 
make  a  dinner  party  the  expense  of  which  should  vie  with  the  City 
feast  at  a  coronation,  where  shall  we  find  the  company  ?  Among 
worthy  merchants  and  lawyers,  or  members  of  congress,  or  judges  ? 
Have  not  some  of  our  greatest  men — I  may  say  all  our  greatest  men 
— been  of  the  simplest  tastes  and  habits  ?  Where  can  we  find  a 
man  whose  conversation  would  be  of  the  least  value,  who  would  not 
prefer  visiting  where  style  was  a  secondary  matter  ?  And  surely  a 
splendid  feast  without  elegant  conversation  is  a  mortifying  sight. 
Even  in  England,  where  splendor  is  inbred,  every  body  groans  over 
a  grand  dinner ;  in  America  the  burthen  is  intolerable,  both  to 
entertainers  and  sufferers. 

Do  not  let  us  adopt  any  artificial  and  un-American  customs  with 


112  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


the  desire  to  imitate,  or  the  hope  to  rival,  our  English  neighbors* 
Our  imitation  will  be  crude  and  vapid ;  our  rivalry  ridiculous.  They 
could  much  more  profitably  imitate  us  in  the  simplicity  which  we 
despise,  and  not  a  few  of  their  best  spirits  desire  to  see  some 
approach  to  such  a  state  of  things,  in  the  hope  of  averting  the  ills 
which  threaten  their  prosperity  and  grandeur.  They  feel  that  their 
safety  lies  in  lessening  the  gulf  which  lies  between  the  privileged 
classes  and  "  the  people."  Now  we  are  "  the  people,"  and  we  cannot 
be  any  body  else.  To  attempt  it  were  as  vain  as  for  a  soldier  to 
step  out  of  the  ranks  in  order  to  appear  to  better  advantage.  With 
us,  the  good  of  one  is  the  good  of  all.  We  have  a  grand  position 
as  independent  Americans ;  we  sink  at  once  into  an  inferior  one, 
when  we  imitate  any  body.  The  whole  range  of  cultivation  lies 
before  us  ;  we  can  inform  and  refine  our  minds  to  any  extent,  and 
spend  our  fortunes  according  to  the  tastes  thus  imbibed.  We  may 
live  liberally  and  even  elegantly,  without  renouncing  the  dignified 
simplicity  which  draws  its  maxims  and  habits  from  the  proprieties 
of  things,  and- not  from  the  conventionalisms  of  people  in  the  Old 
World ;  we  may  become  the  patrons  of  Art,  because  we  love  and 
understand  it,  not  because  somebody  else  with  money  patronizes  Art, 
and  we  do  not  like  to  be  behindhand ;  we  may  exercise  hospitality 
in  the  true  spirit — that  which  excludes  the  idea  of  emulation,  and 
thinks  only  of  social  pleasure  and  kindness.  And  we  can  do  all  this 
without  even  inquiring  what  will  English  or  French  Mrs.  Grundy 
say,  or  hampering  ourselves  with  a  set  of  rules  and  notions,  which, 
whatever  may  have  been  their  propriety  where  they  grew  up,  are  to 
us  the  very  killers  of  healthy  enjoyment,  enemies  of  the  poetry  of 
life.  The  tameness  which  is  the  result  of  imitation  is  dreadful. 
Whoever  among  us  speaks  his  honest  sentiments  always  acknowl- 
edges that  our  tone  of  society  is  dull  and  uninteresting  ;  and  this  is 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  BE?  113 

partly  owing  to  the  incessant  pursuit  of  money  ;  partly  to  a  dis- 
regard of  aesthetic  cultivation  ;  but  principally  to  a  want  of  natural- 
ness— a  spirit  of  imitation,  which  prompts  us  to  be  always  in  the 
rear  of  some  model,  without  the  least  judgment  or  taste.  We  lack 
individuality  ;  and  although  the  English  possess  it  in  a  large  measure, 
— as  from  their  great  self-esteem  they  might  be  expected  to  do— yet 
we  can  never  acquire  it  by  copying  their  manners. 

Let  us  inquire  for  a  moment  what  were  the  seeds  of  the  fashion- 
able manners  we  are  so  fond  of  imitating — those  which  we  please 
ourselves  with  calling  aristocratic.  Mr.  D'Israeli  says  of  the  days 
of  King  James  I. — '  As  a  historian,  it  would  be  my  duty  to  show 
how  incredibly  gross  were  the  domestic  language  and  the  domestic 
familiarities  of  kings,  queens,  lords  and  ladies,  which  were  much  like 
the  lowest  of  our  populace.'  Sir  John  Harrington  gives  an  account 
of  '  a  masque  given  during  the  visit  of  the  king  of  Denmark  in 
England,  at  which  the  ladies  who  were  to  have  performed  could  not 
stand  from  intoxication,  and  their  Majesties  of  Denmark  and  Eng- 
land, were  both  carried  to  bed  by  their  attendants.'  The  ladies  of 
the  court  of  Charles  I.,  drank,  gamed  and  swore  ;  enacted  jokes  of 
which  often  the  wit  was  as  questionable  as  the  propriety ;  rode  in 
the  park ;  sailed  on  the  Thames ;  visited  the  theatres  in  men's 
attire;  frequented  masquerades,  etc.'  What  was  fashionable  for 
gentlemen,  we  learn  from  Ben  Jonson ;  '  Look  you,  sir,  now  you 
are  a  gentleman,  you  must  carry  a  more  exalted  presence ;  change 
your  mood  and  habit  to  a  more  austere  form  ;  be  exceeding  proud, 
stand  upon  your  gentility,  and  scorn  every  man.'  *  The  fashion  is, 
when  any  stranger  comes  in  amongst  them,  they  all  stand  up  and 
stare  at  him,  as  if  he  were  some  unknown  beast,  brought  out  of 
Africk.  You  must  be  impudent  enough,  sit  down,  and  use  no 
respect ;  when  any  thing  is  propounded  above  your  capacity,  smile 


114  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


at  it,  make  two  or  three  faces  at  it,  and  it  is  excellent ;  though  you 
argue  a  whole  day  in  silence  thus,  and  discourse  nothing  but  laugh- 
ter, 'twill  pass.  Only,  now  and  then  give  fire,  discharge  a  £ood  full 
oath,  and  offer  a  great  wager,  and  'twill  be  admirable.'  Lady  Town- 
ley  enumerates  among  the  delightful  privileges  of  a  married  woman 
of  fashion,  that  she  may  '  have  men  at  her  toilet,  invite  them  to 
dinner,  appoint  them  a  party  in  a  stage-box  at  a  play,  engross  the 
conversation  there,  call  'em  by  their  Christian  names,  talk  louder  than 
the  players,  etc.'  In  later  times,  the  Princess  of  Wales,  mother  of 
George  III.,  said,  that '  such  was  the  universal  profligacy,  such  the 
character  and  conduct  of  the  young  people  of  distinction,  that  she 
was  really  afraid  to  have  them  'near  her  children.' 

It  is  to  be  observed  that,  while  the  character  of  the  *  fashionable 
world,'  was  thus  unprincipled  and  degraded,  examples  of  the  highest 
virtue  were  not  wanting,  elsewhere,  in  close  proximity  to  these 
beacons  of  folly  and  vice.  Each  age  shows  us  splendid  examples, 
in  both  sexes,  but  they  do  not  belong  to  the  class  which  exalts 
fashion  into  an  aim  of  life.  It  requires  no  unjust  severity  to  say,  that 
in  that  class  there  are  no  such  examples.  Why — if  the  pattern  of 
virtue  be  not  lost — if  it  inspire  compatriots  and  contemporaries — 
why  is  one  particular  class  beyond  the  reach  of  its  influence,  so  com- 
pletely that  by  no  accident  is  any  one  of  its  members  ever  found 
eminent  in  the  ranks  of  goodness  ?  The  question  needs  no  answer, 
but  we  may  ask  what  worthy  reason  there  can  be  for  our  ambition 
to  belong  to  a  body  thus  inferior  in  aims  and  deficient  in  moral 
power. 

We  might  fill  out  these  hints,  and  bring  down  a  succession  of 
pictures  e^en  to  the  present  day,  but  there  is  no  occasion.  Public 
sentiment  has  made  such  advances  that  open  grossness  is  not  tole- 
rated in  our  day,  in  any  rank  of  society.  But  the  spirit  of  what  is 


WHAT    SHALL    WE    BE?  H5 


called  fashionable  life  is  the  same  ;  its  foundation  is  the  same  in  the 
most  important  particular,  viz :  in  maintaining  that  the  whims  and 
foolish  devices  of  a  few  idle  wealthy  people  shall  be  the  standard  of 
manners  and  customs — a  principle  which  casts  discredit  upon  all 
that  men  have  agreed  in  considering  wise  and  good,  even  where  it 
does  not  lead  to  an  open  abrogation  of  the  essentials  of  morality. 
This  is  the  true  vice  of  Fashion — not  that  it  is  frivolous — not  that 
it  sacrifices  too  much  to  mere  beauty,  or  mere  pleasure — not  that  it 
leads  to  imprudent  or  even  dishonest  expenditure  ;  but  that  it  vir- 
tually sets  aside  the  ancient  and  only  standards  of  right,  in  favor  of 
a  code  of  laws  as  weak  and  mean  as  they  are  fluctuating. 

It  is  a  wonder  that  any  considerable  class  of  persons  has  ever 
been  found  willing  to  become  the  humble  imitators  of  mere  folly 
and  arrogance  ;  a  still  greater  wonder  that  such  a  class  should  exist 
among  us.  Let  us  hope  that  a  better  understanding  of  ourselves 
and  our  position  will  bring  us  back,  at  no  very  distant  day,  to  a 
more  sagacious  estimate  of  ton.  Our  ton  should  be  that  of  true  and 
honorable  simplicity — the  simplicity,  not  of  ignorance,  but  of  prin- 
ciple— the  ton  of  kindliness  and  universal  consideration,  of  intelli- 
gence, of  industry,  of  respect  for  probity  and  delicacy,  in  whatever 
station  found. 

It  is  the  apparent  refinement  of  fashionable  people  that  tempts 
many,  who  do  not  perceive  that  an  appearance  of  refinement  often 
covers  real  coarseness.  Refinement  of  soul  is  one  thing ;  mere  out- 
ward delicacy  quite  another ;  but  the  young,  the  thoughtless  and  the 
feeble-minded  are  apt  to  overlook  the  distinction.  True  delicacy 
is  often  found  in  the  humblest  ranks  of  life,  horrible  coarseness  in  the 
highest.  Let  us  learn  to  judge  of  things  as  they  are,  disregarding 
all  false  glare. 


]16  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


Here,  as  m  all  other  cases,  w?e  find  in  the  Bible,  a  rule  suited  to 
our  needs :  "  Whatsoever  things  are  true,  whatsover  things  are 
honest,  whatsoever  things  are  just,  whatsoever  things  are  pure,  what- 
soever things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good  report ;  if 
there  be  any  virtue  and  any  praise,  think  on  these  things."  Is  this 
the  groundwork  of  the  fashionable  code  ? 


FASTIDIOUSNESS, 

WHO,  that  is  not  a  botanist,  likes  to  see  one  of  that  disenchant- 
ing and  unpoetical  craft  coolly  pull  into  fragments — cut,  maim,  and 
disfigure — discolor  with  pitiless  acids  and  virulent  alkalies,  and 
macerate  to  undistinguishable  pulp — his  favorite  flower?  Who 
can  bear  to  see  petals  pinched — anthers  analyzed — pericarps  pried 
into — roots  rummaged — by  a  utilitarian  ?  How  much  pleasanter  is 
it  to  find  sacred  emblems  in  a  certain  peculiar  arrangement  of 
stamens  and  pistils  ;  read  constancy  of  affection  in 

The  sunflower  that  turns  on  her  god  when  he  sets 
The  same  look  that  she  turned  when  he  rose — 

and  listen  with  belie ving  ears  to 

Hyacinths,  purple  and  white  and  blue, 
That  fling  from  their  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew, 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft  and  intense, 
It  is  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense ! 

Delicate  things  should  be  treated  delicately ;  the  golden  beauty 
of  pollen  is  lost  in  the  handling.     It  is  one  of  the  cherished  evi- 


118  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 

donees  of  ultra  refinement  to  hold  many  things  too  nice  to  be 
touched,  and  this  thought  brings  us  to  our  subject. 

The  fastidious  are  of  right  shocked  at  any  examination  into  the 
nature  and  essence  of  fastidiousness.  They  would  be  ready  to  for- 
swear it  after  its  humiliating  subjection  to  vulgar  tests,  if  there  were 
anything  else  that  could  so  well  distinguish  the  ineffable  few  from 
the  intolerable  many.  It  is  their  own — their  chosen — their  resource 
— their  defence — their  hope — their  glory  ; — to  question  with  or 
upon  it  is  insolently  coarse ;  to  doubt  its  rightful  supremacy,  pro- 
fane. We  remember  reading  somewhere  of  a  simple  rural  lover 
who  had  followed  some  Lady  Glara  Vere  de  Vere  to  town,  there  to 
behold  her  waltzed  and  polka'd  with  by  all  manner  of  men,  return- 
ing to  his  shades  in  despairing  disgust : 

Sir,  she's  yours !  you  have  brushed  from  the  grape  its  soft  blue, 
From  the  rose-bud  you've  shaken  the  tremulous  dew — 
What  you've  touched  you  may  take  I—- 
We have  some  fear  that  fastidiousness  will  be  even  so — contemp- 
tuously left  to  the  critics,  if  they  once  try  their  art  upon  it.     But 
we  claim  the  privilege  of  science,  which  dissects  without  respect  to 
persons,  and  does  not  blush  to  be  the  sworn  enemy  of  poetry. 

To  begin  botanically  then :  Where  shall  we  class  this  flower  of 
worldliness — among  the  roots  of  healing  or  the  subtle  poisons  ? 

Shall  it  take  rank  with  the  favored  Camellia  in  the  bouquet  of 
beauty,  or  with 

Thistles  and  nettles  and  darnels  rank, 
And  the  dock  and  the  henbane  and  hemlock  dank — 
Prickly  and  pulpous  and  blistering  and  blue, 
Livid,  and  starr'd  with  a  lurid  hue  ? 

It  is  hard  to  characterize  it,  for  it  is  full  of  anomalies ;  sometimes 


FASTIDIOUSNESS.  H9 


splendid  and  deadly,  like  the  scarlet  Lobelia,  sometimes  intoxicating 
and  delusive  as  Hellebore,  and  again  harmless  and  insipid  as  some 
*  weed  inane.'  But  let  us  not  be  led  by  these  spiral  figuratives  to 
a  height  of  metaphor  from  which  it  may  be  difficult  to  slip  down 
gracefully. 

In  the  plainest  prose,  then,  what  is  fastidiousness  ? 

Stern  old  Johnson,  who  confessed  that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to 
pity  the  choice  sorrows  of  a  fine  lady,  says,  to  be  fastidious  is  to  be 
'insolently  nice — delicate  to  a  vice — squeamish — disdainful.'  Do 
these  seem  amiable  adjectives?  Impertinent  dictionary-maker! 
Unaccommodating,  obdurate,  Saxon  tongue !  Is  there  no  unique 
name  for  that  fine  essence — that  impalpable  sina  qua  non — which 
is  the  life  and  soul  of  the  genteel  ?  No !  none  but  itself  can  be  its 
parallel.  Let  us  then  not  seek  to  define  but  to  examine  it. 

Personal'fastidiousness  is  said  to  be  the  characteristic  of  a  condition 
of  high  refinement.  If  refinement  were  a  matter  of  physics,  this  might 
be  admitted.  The  Israelitish  ladies  '  could  not  set  the  sole  of  their 
foot  to  the  ground  for  delicateness  and  tenderness,'  but  were  they, 
therefore,  refined  women  ?  There  is  an  implication  even  of  impiety 
in  the  scriptural  notice  of  them.  Poppsea  must  have  a  bath  of 
asses'  milk ;  somebody  of  old  wept  because  a  rose-leaf  was  doubled 
under  him.  Not  to  go  beyond  our  own  day  and  sphere  for  instances, 
we  have  ourselves  known  a  gentleman  who  would  not  sign  his  name 
until  he  had  put  on  his  gloves,  lest  by  any  accident  his  fingers 
should  incur  the  contamination  of  ink  ;  and  a  lady  who  objected  to 
joining  in  the  Holy  Communion,  because  the  idea  of  drinking  after 
other  people  was  so  disgusting  !  Shall  we  then  reckon  among  the 
marks  of  true  refinement  a  quality  which  is  compatible  with  igno- 
rance, with  vice,  with  inanity,  vanity,  and  irreligion  ? 


120  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


Hans  Christian  Andersen  has  given  us  one  of  his  shrewd  little 
stories  in  point. 

There  was  once  a  prince  of  great  honor  and  renown  who  wished 
to  marry  a  real  princess.  Many  persons  calling  themselves  princesses 
had  been  offered  for  this  dignity,  but  there  was  always  something 
about  the  ladies  which  made  him  doubtful  of  their  claim  to  the  title. 
So  not  being  able  to  satisfy  his  fastidiousness  on  this  point,  he 
remained  for  a  long  time  undecided. 

One  night  during  a  tremendous  storm,  a  young  lady  came  to  the 
door  and  requested  admittance,  saying  that  she  was  a  real  princess. 
She  was  in  a  most  pitiable  condition — draggled  from  head  to  foot, 
with  the  rain  pouring  in  torrents  from  her  dishevelled  locks,  she 
looked  forlorn  enough  for  a  beggar.  But  the  prince  would  not  pre'- 
judge  her ;  he  invited  her  to  spend  the  night,  and  in  the  meantime 
his  mother  devised  a  plan  by  which  to  ascertain  whether  her  preten- 
sions were  genuine.  On  the  place  where  the  princess  was  to  sleep  she 
put  three  small  peas,  and  on  the  top  of  them  twenty  mattresses, 
covering  these  again  with  twenty  feather  beds.  Upon  this  luxurious 
couch  the  supposed  princess  retired  to  rest,  and  in  the  morning  she 
was  asked  how  she  had  passed  the  night. 

1  Oh,  most  wretchedly,'  she  replied ;  '  there  was  something  hard 
in  my  bed  which  distressed  me  extremely,  and  has  bruised  me  all 
over  black  and  blue  !' 

Then  they  knew  that  her  pretensions  were  not  false,  for  none  but 
a  real  princess  could  have  possessed  sufficient  delicacy  of  perception 
to  feel  the  three  little  peas  under  twenty  mattresses  and  twenty 
feather  beds ! 

Is  not  then  delicacy  of  personal  habits  desirable  ? 

Beyond  doubt,  when  it  is  held  in  subservience  to  higher  things. 
The  man  or  woman  to  whom  coarseness  is  not  offensive,  can  never 


FASTIDIOUSNESS.  121 

be  agreeable  as  a  companion,  whatever  the  general  excellence  which 
might  be  expected  to  counterbalance  this  defect  of  nature  or  educa- 
tion. But  to  be  naturally  or  habitually  delicate  is  one  thing,  to  be 
systematically  fastidious  quite  another.  The  quality  or  habit  we 
are  considering  has  its  root  in  the  profoundest  egotism,  and  its 
branches  are  so  numerous  that  it  is  impossible  to  consider  them  all 
in  detail.  It  is  like  the  paper-mulberry  tree,  no  two  leaves  of  which 
are  alike.  Let  us  pick  a  sprig  or  two  here  and  there  as  specimens. 

Fastidiousness,  when  unaffected — which  it  is  not  always — is  very 
generally  a  mark  of  weakness.  Persons  of  exalted  virtue  are  never 
reputed  to  be  fastidious,  and  why  ?  not  because  they  are  constituted 
differently  from  other  men,  but  because  great  objects — noble  aims — 
occupy  the  soul  and  thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  whatever  might 
interfere  with  them.  If  a  man  who  has  devoted  himself  to  the 
highest  pursuits  which  can  engage  the  attention  of  mortals,  finds 
fastidious  habits  in  his  way,  they  will  be  the  first  sacrifice  he  will 
lay  upon  the  altar  of  duty.  But  it  may  be  questioned  -whether 
these  habits  will  not  be  often  beforehand  with  us,  effectually  pre- 
venting any  hearty  devotion  to  duty.  Questioned,  did  we  say  ? 
Alas  !  does  not  every  day's  observation  show  us  that  they  are  the 
hindrance,  in  too  many  cases,  especially  of  feminine  goodness  ?  In 
the  care  of  the  poor,  and  especially  in  any  attempt  to  reform  the 
vicious,  is  not  this  conspicuously  the  difficulty,  even  to  the  extent  of 
subjecting  a  woman  to  the  charge  of  coarseness  if  she  is  found  able 
to  bear  the  -presence  of  the  squalid  and  the  degraded  1  We  have 
heard  ladies  observe  calmly  and  with  obvious  self-complacency,  that 
they  could  not  endure  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  poor,  and  must 
leave  the  care  of  them  to  those  who  could !  And  we  could  not 
help  feeling  that  the  daring  required  for  such  an  avowal  might  have 
served  an  excellent  purpose  if  turned  in  the  right  direction. 


122  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


Fastidiousness  is  a  dreadful  weapon  of  domestic  tyranny.  Many 
a  household  can  tell  the  grinding  power  of  a  selfishness  which  dis- 
guises itself  under  the  form  of  delicacy  of  tastes  and  habits.  Many 
are  the  tears  of  vexation,  anxiety,  mortification,  and  disappointment^ 
occasioned  by  the  unfeeling  temper  and  inconsiderate  exactions 
which  are  the  legitimate  fruit  of  undue  attention  to  personal  com- 
fort. One  must  be  little  observant  of  what  is  about  him  if  he  have 
not  sometimes  been  driven,  by  the  ingenious  requisitions  of  the  self- 
indulgent,  to  wish  that  the  hair  shirt,  the  pulse-and-water,  and  the 
flinty  bed  of  the  anchorite  could  be  tried  for  the  reformation  of 
such.  Providence  seems  often  to  discipline  these  people  by  increas- 
ing the  sensitiveness  they  have  voluntarily  induced  or  cherished, 
until  it  becomes  a  tormenting  want  which  nothing  in  nature  is  capa- 
ble of  allaying.  They  are  crushed  by  the  gods  their  own  hands 
have  set  up. 

But  personal  fastidiousness,  although  a  hardener  of  the  heart,  a 
traitor  to  the  rights  and  feeling  of  those  who  depend  on  us,  a  bar  to 
improvement,  a  puller  down  of  all' the  faculties  of  the  soul,  is  not 
the  only  form  of  this  specious  enemy.  Its  effects  upon  society  are 
quite  as  extensive  and  fatal  in  its  other  character  of — what  we  may 
mil  for  want  of  a .  more  expressive  term — exclusfveness.  In  this 
shape  its  office  is  to  allow  value  and  charm  to  all  that  is  desirable, 
only  in  proportion  as  others  are  shut  out  from  its  enjoyment.  It 
seems  strange  that  this  so  obvious  refuge  of  empty  pride  could 
become  a  formidable  moral  evil,  but  it  is  one  of  the  sorest  of  our 
condition  of  society — a  condition  which,  because  it  is  artificial  and 
contrary  to  our  better  nature,  we  please  ourselves  with  calling 
refined.  An  anxious  reaching  after  something  which  shall  distin- 
guish us  from  others  is  one  of  the  natural  traits  of  mortal  man  ;  but 
one  of  the  most  unlovely  and  ungenerous  manifestations  of  this  dis- 


FASTIDIOUSNESS.  123 


position  is  the  attempt  to  undervalue  a  large  part  of  all  the  things 
and  people  that  we  see,  in  order  that  our  taste  and  judgment  may 
be  reckoned  supreme  by  people  as  superficial  as  ourselves.  It  is 
this  which  occasions  the  listlessness  displayed  by  certain  persons 
when  they  are  out  of  their  own  set ;  the  chilling  look,  the  dead 
reply,  the  disclaiming  air  with  which  they  decline  to  participate  in 
social  pleasures  which  have  not  a  certain  conventional  sanction. 
They  are  so  fastidious !  They  lament  the  fault,  too,  with  an  air 
that  says  they  would  not  be  without  it  for  the  world ;  they  evidently 
feel  that  their  chosen  position  depends  upon  an  incapacity  to  enjoy 
common  pleasures,  quite  ignorant  all  the  while  that  the  highest 
point  and  object  of  true  cultivation  is  a  universal  human  sympathy. 
The  eagle  can  look  down  from  such  a  commanding  altitude  that  the 
difference  in  height  of  the  objects  on  the  plain  is  scarcely  percepti- 
ble ;  while  the  mole,  blinking  about  a  diameter  of  a  few  inches,  is 
quite  sure  there  is  nothing  worth  seeing  beyond  that  circle.  What 
wouads,  what  heart-burnings,  what  stiflings  of  the  sweet  charities 
of  life,  what  l  evil  surmisings,'  what  an  unchristian  tone  of 
intercourse,  what  loss  of  a  thousand  advantages  to  be  commu- 
nicated and  received,  result  from  the  cultivation  of  a  spirit  of  fastid- 
ious exclusiveness  !  How  much  spontaneous  kindness  is  prevented 
by  the  intrusion  of  a  cultivated  and  cherished  distaste  for  certain 
harmless  peculiarities  which  we  have  chosen  to  consider  intolerable ! 
"We  can  pardon  criminality  in  some  shapes  more  easily  than  we  can 
overlook  mere  unpleasantness  in  others,  so  arbitrary  is  our  fastidious- 
ness, so  unamenable  to  right  reason.  *  There  are  far  worse  sins  than 
sins  against  taste,'  said  a  young  clergyman  once  to  a  lady  who  was 
inveighing  against  the  coarseness  of  certain  reformers ;  and  the  les- 
son might  well  be  repeated  in  many  a  so-called  refined  circle.  One 


124  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


of  the  deep  condemnations  of  this  effeminate  nicety  is  that  it  is 
ulways  exercised  about  trifles. 

Like  other  things  spurious,  fastidiousness  is  often  inconsistent 
with  itself ;  the  coarsest  things  are  done,  the  cruellest  things  said 
by  the  most  fastidious  people.  Horace  Walpole  was  a  proverb  of 
epicurean  particularity  of  taste,  yet  none  of  the  vulgarians  whom  he 
vilified  had  a  keener  relish  for  a  coarse  allusion  or  a  malicious  false- 
hood. Beckford,  of  Fonthill,  demanded  that  life  should  be  thrice 
winnowed  for  his  use,  but  what  was  his  life  ?  Louis  XIV.  was 
"  insolently  nice"  in  some  things,  what  was  he  in  others  ?  If  we 
observe  a  person  proud  of  a  reputation  for  fastidiousness,  we  shall 
always  find  that  the  egotism  which  is  its  life  will  at  times  lead  him 
to  say  or  do  something  disgusting.  We  need  expect  from  such 
people  no  delicate,  silent  self-sacrifice,  no  tender  watching  for  others' 
tastes  or  needs,  no  graceful  yielding  up  of  privileges  in  unconsidered 
trifles,  on  which  wait  no  "  flowing  thanks."  They  may  be  kind  and 
obliging  to  a  certain  extent,  but  when  the  service  required  inrolves 
anything  disagreeable,  anything  offensive  to  the  taste  on  which  they 
pride  themselves,  we  must  apply  elsewhere.  Their  fineness  of  nature 
sifts  common  duties,  selecting  for  practice  only  those  which  will  pass 
the  test ;  and  conscience  is  not  hurt,  for  unsuspected  pride  has  given 
her  a  bribe. 

One  of  the  fruits  of  misplaced  fastidiousness  is  the  utter  and  intole- 
rable tameness  which  it  induces  in  society.  We  ask  for  truth  and 
nature  in  poetry  and  painting,  and  find  nothing  so  charming  as 
flashes  of  natural  genius  in  li terature ;  buf  in  society  everything  is 
crushed  to  a  dead  level,  and  by  what  ?  By  a  tyrannical  something 
which  claims  to  be  good  taste,  but  which  is  in  truth  anything  else. 
This  resolute  frowning  down  or  freezing  up  of  whatevef '  is  sponta- 
neous is  not  the  operation  of  good  taste,  but  the  cunning  artifice  of 


FASTIDIOUSNESS.  125 


dull  people,  who,  having  secured  certain  physical  advantages,  use 
them  for  the  purpose  of  repressing  in  others  whatever  might 
threaten  to  disturb  their  empire.  It  seems  strange  at  first  view  that 
this  should  have  been  practicable,  and  the  reason  why  it  is  so  is 
rather  a  mortifying  one.  The  power  of  wealth,  even  of  wealth  in 
which  we  have  no  interest,  is  overwhelming.  It  has  ever  been  so 
since  the  world  began  ;  whoever  becomes  the  envied  possessor  of  a 
few  extra  thousands,  has  a  more  obvious  power  on  the  surface  of 
society  than  the  man  of  genius  or  learning  can  possibly  have ;  and  if 
he  would  live  in  society  he  must  submit  to  take  the  tone  which  has 
been  given  to  it  by  such  people.  We  need  not  then  wonder  that 
persons  of  high  intellectual  pretensions  so  often  decline  society.  It 
suite  not  the  free  mind,  which  finds  its  best  pleasure  in  the  exercise 
of  its  highest  powers,  to  spend  its  precious  hours  and  energies  where 
every  emotion  of  the  soul  must  be  suppressed,  and  every  independent 
thought  is  voted  "  bad  taste,"  if  it  do  not  happen  to  chime  in  with 
the  tone  of  the  circle.  If  we  would  give  our  social  intercourse  the 
charm  whose  absence  we  so  often  regret,  we  must  learn  to  distin- 
guish between  true  delicacy  and  justness  of  taste, — a  quality  referable 
to  principles  and  not  amenable  to  fantasy — and  that  fickle  tyrant 
fastidiousness,  which  claims  despotic  power,  and  wields  its  sceptre  so 
capriciously  that  we  may  as  well  ask  a  fool  to  "  render  a  reason." 

The  fastidiousness  .of  society  does  not  content  itself  with  repressing 
the  natural  expression  of  our  feelings  on  subjects  comparatively 
indifferent ;  it  carries  its  pretensions  still  further.  Certain  topics  of 
great  importance,  of  the  first  moment,  are  prohibited  altogether.  It 
is  considered  bad  taste,  and  voted  indubitable  cant,  to  introduce  the 
subject  of  religion ;  one  may  talk  of  church  affairs,  discuss  the 
sermon  ad  libitum,  pass  the  most  sweeping  judgment  on  the  char- 
acter and  manner  of  the  pastor,  the  dress  and  behavior  of  his  wife, 


126  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


and  the  management  of  his  family  ;  may  point  out  the  inconsistent 
behavior  of  church  members,  and  so  confess  by  implication  that 
there  is  a  standard  somewhere ;  but  to  speak  of  religion  itself, 
seriously  and  practically ;  to  make  its  experience  or  its  duties  the 
theme  of  conversation,  is  to  dare  looks  of  cold  dislike,  and  to  make 
one's  company  shunned  like  a  pestilence.  It  used  to  be  considered 
mauvais  ton  to  "mention  hell  to  ears  polite,"  but  in  modern  society 
it  will  hardly  do  to  allude  to  heaven.  And  this  is  not  to  be  ascribed 

much  to  the  irreligiousness  of  those  who  proscribe  sacred  subjects, 
as  to  the  general  impression,  the  effect  of  false  notions  of  civilization, 
that  only  mediocrity  of  talk  is  safe  ;  that  whatever  would  quicken 
the  dull  flow  of  the  blood,  bring  color  to  the  cheek  and  fire  to  the 
eye,  is  dangerous  in  society.  This  is  undoubtedly  the  great  reason 
why  religion  is  so  much  left,  even  among  people  who  would  like  to 
be  good  if  they  could,  for  Sunday  use  and  cultivation,  and  for  times 
of  affliction,  when  emotion  is  not  out  of  place,  because  the  depths  of 
the  soul  are  stiired  by  God  himself,  and  man  has  no  power  to  enforce 
the  ordinary  chilling  calm. 

We  would  not  be  considered  as  pleading  for  what  is  sometimes 
called  religious  conversation,  too  often  as  far  from  truth  and  nature 
as  the  most  inane  talk  of  fashionable  society  ;  but  for  liberty  to  talk 
on  whatever  subject  really  interests  us.  This  excludes  cant  and  all 
prosing  for  effect.  If  it  were  allowable  for  all  to  talk  on  religious  _ 
subjects  when  so  disposed,  there  would  be  the  less  field  for  those 
who  assume  the  right  as  if  it  were  an  exclusive  merit.  Perfect 
liberty  for  all  would  leave  no  temptation  to  hypocritical  pretenders 
or  weak  devotees,  for  liberty  induces  a  healthful  action,  which  natu- 
rally extinguishes  whatever  is  spurious  and  forced.  Conversation  is 
much  impoverished  by  the  exclusion  of  religion,  for  there  is  scarcely 
a  subject  of  human  interest  which  can  be  fully  treated  without  refer- 


FASTIDIOUSNESS.  127 


ence  to  it.  This  may  seem  to  some  a  sweeping  assertion,  but  those 
who  doubt  may  see  an  admirable  exemplification  of  our  meaning-  in 
two  modern  works  by  one  author,  "  Modern  Painters,"  and  "  The 
Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,"  by  Mr.  Ruskin,  a  writer  who  insists 
on  the  connexion  not  only  of  art  but  of  every  gratification  of  our 
higher  nature  with  religion. 

The  exclusion  of  religious  topics  from  Conversation,  includes,  of 
course,  the  exclusion  of  all  discussion  of -morals  deduced  from  reli- 
gion. Moral  rules  founded  on  social  convenience  and  public  order 
are  within  the  pale ;  it  is  only  when  we  would  contemplate  a  code 
of  morals  which  is  somewhat  stricter  than  the  law  of  the  land,  that 
we  offend  fastidious  taste.  Here  is  another  cause  of  barrenness,  for 
who  can  dwell  for  ever  in  the  merest  externals,  without  becoming 
distressingly  cold  and  empty  ?  How  is  it  possible  to  take  an  intelli- 
gent interest  in  human  affairs,  without  contemplating  them  in  their 
moral  bearings,  whether  obvious  or  remote  ?  If  it  be  contended 
that  to  talk  about  these  things  is  to  do  no  good,  we  might  refer  to 
the  objector's  own  experience,  and  ask  whether,  on  close  examination 
of  the  sources  of  some  of  his  most  important  moral  impressions,  he 
does  not  discover  that  a  sentiment  uttered  in  ordinary  conversation 
by  some  man  of  sense  or  piety  lies  at  the  very  root  of  his  convic- 
tions of  duty.  The  arrows  of  truth  stick,  whether  shot  from  for- 
mally prepared  and  authorized  bows  or  not.  The  mind  may  be  on 
its  guard  against  regular  teachings,  while  it  will  receive  unquestioned 
an  idea  which,  though  presented  by  a  seeming  cjiance,  is  yet  com- 
mended by  truth*  to  the  understanding  or  the  conscience.  How 
important  then  is  it  to  enjoy  a  free  expression  of  sentiment  on  mat- 
tors  of  importance  !  The  '  word  fitly  spoken,'  which  is  truly  *  like 
apples  of  gold  in  pictures  (baskets)  of  silver,'  should  never  be  lost, 
in  deference  to  a  pretentious  and  stolid  fastidiousness.  It  is  as  much 


128  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


our  duty  to  bear  our  testimony  to  the  truth  when  occasion  offers, 
as  to  act  conscientiously  in  any  other  way.  To  suppress  the  good 
word  is  a  sin,  and  it  is  a  sin  to  which  society  continually  tempts  the 
unwary.  It  is  not  long  since  we  ourselves  heard  an  ingenuous  young 
person  say,  '  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  to  say  what  I  thought,  but  I  did 
not  dare.'  *  "Why  not  ?'  '  O,  they  would  have  thought  me  so  dis- 
agieeable !'  It  is  in  vain  to  expect  most  persons  to  have  the  courage 
to  be  honest  in  the  expression  of  unpopular  sentiments  at  such  cost, 
and  every  instance  of  conscious  disingenuousness  takes  something 
from  our  self-respect  and  our  courage  in  withstanding  evil. 

What  is  called  fastidiousness  in  literature  is,  happily  for  literature, 
nearly  out  of  date.  The  first  demand  now-a-days,  is  that  a  writer 
shall  say  something,  and  only  the  second  that  he  shall  say  it  well. 
Mere  style  is  but  little  esteemed,  except  so  far  as  it  has  direct  fitness 
to  convey  ideas  clearly.  There  is  plenty  of  criticism  of  style,  but 
its  grounds  are  more  manly  than  they  were  a  hundred  years  since. 
There  are  hypercritics  of  course,  but  nobody  minds  them,  and  the 
usual  tone  of  remark  on  books  is  so  general,  that  we  are  in  danger 
of  falling  into  a  neglectful  habit  of  writing,  through  lack  of  that 
sharp  and  carping  spirit  which  was  fashionable  in  the  days  of  War- 
burton  and  Eitson.  The  few  who  still  attempt  to  be  noted  for 
literary  fastidiousness  are  usually  heard  to  utter  only  sentences  of 
lofty  and  general  disapprobation.  They  do  not  like  the  book ! 
But  why  ?  Oh,  they  do  not  know  !  They  are  unfortunately  rather 
fastidious !  It  is  hard  to  extract  anything  like  criticism  from  these 
objectors.  They  do  not  like  to  commit  themselves  by  specific 
remarks  which  might  be  refuted.  They  prefer  the  safe  dignity  of 
indefinite  censure.  There  is  no  disputing  about  taste,  and  this  saves 
all  trouble  of  argument  and  explanation.  It  may  be  suggested  to 
this  class  of  fastidious  people  that  not  only  good  common  sonse, 


FASTIDIOUSNESS.  129 


but  taste,  knowledge,  sensibility,  and  sympathy  are  required  to 
make  literary  judgment  worth  anything,  and  they  may,  perhaps,  be 
profitably  advised  to  read  what  Coleridge  has  said  of  critics  who 
decide  without  the  aid  of  these  qualities.  We  must  know  what  a 
work  ought  to  be,  before  we  are  competent  to  say  what  it  is. 

Delicacy  of  taste  in  all  things  is  one  of  the  most  charming  and 
desirable  of  qualities.  It  supposes  in  the  first  place  great  perfection 
and  sensitiveness  of  bodily  organization,  in  the  second,  high  cultiva- 
tion, and  in  the  third,  a  moral  tenderness  which  is  tremblingly  alive 
to  the  most  delicate  test.  Without  the  last  of  these  requisites  the 
others  are  null  or  worse ;  with*  it  they  are  indeed  things  to  be 
thankful  for.  It  was  our  lot  once  to  meet  a  gentleman  who  had 
lost  his  sight  and  hearing,  yet  retained  his  taste  in  even  increased 
sensibility — a  circumstance  which  occasioned  the  keenest  mortifica- 
tion to  his  high-strung  and  proud  mind,  because  it  assimilated  him 
with  the  beasts.  Yet  who  has  not  known  people  who  prided  them- 
selves on  "this  very  quality,  without  reference  to  any  other  ?  True 
delicacy  is  founded  on  principle ;  it  selects  and  rejects  for  a  reason. 
Mere  fastidiousness  is  often  either  conscious  coarseness  attempting  a 
redeeming  and  genteelifying  trait,  or  ambitious  vulgarity  aping  the 
refined.  Delicacy  is  consistent,  because  it  is  real ;  fastidiousness 
forgets  to  be  so  when  the  inducement  is  absent.  Delicacy  is  sensi- 
tive for  others ;  fastidiousness  is  too  often  '  mere  self-indulgenco 
slightly  veiled.  Delicacy  is  always  conciliated  by  what  is  intrinsi- 
cally good ;  fastidiousness  is  disgusted  by  any  originality  even  of 
virtue.  Delicacy  is  at  home  even  in  a  desert ;  fastidiousness  can 
exist  only  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  pseudo-refinement.  Delicacy 
accompanied  Catharine  Vonder  Wart,  when  she  watched  alone  in 
the  open  storm  all  night  by  her  husband,  wiping  the  foam  of  agony 

from  his  lips,  and  bearing  up  his  spirit  as  he  lay  stretched  upon  tho 
6* 


130  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


rack ;  fastidiousness  would  have  stayed  at  home,  wringing  her 
hands  and  tearing  her  hair  perhaps,  but  never  thinking  such  service 
possible. 

But  whither  are  we  tending  ?  We  have  been  led  to  maiming 
and  macerating  our  flower  indeed,  to  an  extent  which  even  botany 
will  hardly  justify.  Do  we  seem  to  have  treated  our  subject  harshly  ? 
It  is  only  seeming.  The  moment  we  begin  to  analyze  we  must 
necessarily  wear  the  appearance  of  severity.  Is  it — can  it  be — 
needful  to  say  that  after  all  we  have  said  about  fastidiousness,  there 
are  some  fastidious  people  whom  we  love  dearly,  and  who  are  full 
of  all  good  things  ?  When  we  treat  a  subject  of  this  nature,  we 
must  be  indulged  in  a  complete  abstraction,  which  allows  us  to  call 
everything  by  its  plainest  name,  give  it  its  true  meaning,  and  trace 
it  out  to  its  legitimate  consequences.  It  is  in  applying  our  remarks, 
that  allowances  are  to  be  made  and  special  circumstances  and 
balances  considered.  That  is  the  business  of  the  reader  rather  than 
of  the  writer.  Of  the  writer  is  to  be  required  only  the  most  rigor- 
ous impartiality  of  research,  and  of  course  the  most  unflinching  self- 
apr>lication ! 


BUSH-LIFE, 

'ADIEU,  thou  beautiful  land!  Canaan  of  the  exile,  and  Ararat 
to  many  a  shattered  ark.  Fair  cradle  of  a  race  for  whom  the 
unbounded  heritage  of  a  future  that  no  sage  can  conjecture,  no 

prophet  divine,  lies  afar  in  the  golden  promise-light  of  Time 

None  can  tell  how  dear  the  memory  of  that  wild  Bush-life  becomes 
to  him  who  has  tried  it  with  a  fitting  spirit.  How  often  it  haunts 
him  in  the  commonplace  of  more  civilized  scenes  !  With  what  an 
effort  we  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  trite  cares  and  vexed  pleasures, 
1  the  quotidian  ague  of  frigid  impertinences,'  to  which  we  return !' 

So  sings,  in  mellifluous  prose,  the  fastidious  author  of  '  Pelham', 
in  his  healthiest  work,  '  The  Caxtons,'  goodly  fruit,  it  is  said,  of  the 
purifying  influences  of  Water  !  When  Wordsworth  boasted  of  being 
a  water-drinker,  Professor  Wilson  jocosely  observed  that  he  could  well 
believe  it,  from  the  lack  of  spirit  in  his  poems.  But  Bulwer  shows 
no  diminution  of  spirit .Jn  the  new  novel;  he  has  only  changed 
from  a  wrong  spirit  to  a  right  one.  The  book  abounds  in  manly 
sentiments,  in  place  of  the  old,  tedious,  sentimental  dandyism  ;  and 
one  of  the  most  striking  things  is  the  boldness  which  sends  forth  -its 
heroes  to  brave  the  hardships  and  trials  of  new-country  life. 


132  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


England  seems  learning,  in  a  new  and  unexpected  way,  to  sympa- 
thize with  the  United  States.  She  has  looked  upon  the  rapid 
settlement  of  our  new,  western  country,  as  from  a  far  height  of  civil- 
ization, holding  up  dainty  hands  at  the  idea  of  such  rudeness  of 
manners,  and  considering  our  whole  country  tinged — as  indeed 
it  is — by  certain  results  of  the  growth  and  activity  of  the  West. 
But  lately  her  turn  has  come.  She  is  now  sending  not  only  her 
convicts,  but  her  younger  sons,  her  too-active  reformers,  her  scape- 
graces, and  her  youth  of  more  nerve  than  fortune,  to  people  her 
distant  islands  ;  to  hunt  wild  asses,  and  to  tame  kangaroos.  Then, 
like  a  good  mother  as  she  is,  spreading  her  wings  for  the  protection 
of  her  brood,  she  begins  to  tell  us  what  a  fine  manly  thing  emigra- 
tion is,  how  much  better  it  is  for  young  men — and  young  women, 
too — to  brave  the  disagreeables  of  Bush-life,  than  to  remain  idle  and 
effeminate  and  unprovided  for  at  home.  Two  of  the  most  striking 
fictions  of  the  day  (not  to  speak  of  inferior  specimens),  the  one  to 
which  we  have  alluded,  and  another — a  poem  in  hexameters — 
called  '  The  Bothy  of  Toper-na-Fuosich,' — send  their  heroes  to  Aus- 
tralia, with  a  heartiness  of  approval  which  makes  light  of  the  rough- 
ness of  life  in  the  wilderness,  and  seems  for  the  time  to  find  the 
boasted  civilization  of  the  mother  country  rather  sickly  and  feverish 
by  comparison.  This  is  charming !  it  foretells  some  diminution  of 
national  prejudice  ;  for  whatever  may  be  the  feelings  cherished  by 
London  and  Liverpool  towards  New  York  and  Boston,  a  brot&er- 
hood  will  surely  spring  up  between  Australia  and  the  wide  West : 
nor  will  home  influence  on  either  side  be  able  to  counteract  the 
sympathy  which  common  toils,  privations,  customs,  hopes,  naturally 
originate.  The  Bushman  of  Australia  is  essentially  the  same  being 
with  the  western  settler.  Anglo-Saxons  both,  and  too  strongly 
characterized  by  that  potent  stock  to  show  much  subjection  to  the 


BUSH-LIFE.  133 


accidental  traits  which  have  been  the  consequence  of  the  rending 
of  the  race  into  two  half-inimical  portions  in  the  old  and  new 
worlds,  the  circumstances  of  Bush-life  will  restore  the  pristine  unity, 
and  awaken  a  feeling  of  brotherhood  too  strong  for  the  pride,  preju- 
dice, and  jealousy  of  either  party  to  resist.  Every  book,  therefore, 
that  depicts  Bush-life,  helps  on  this  unity.  In  discovering  how  com- 
pletely the  hopes,  occupations,  habits,  labors,  privations,  and  plea- 
sures of  a  new-country  life  are  one  and  the  same,  whether  the  mild 
skies  of  Van  Diemen's  Land,  or  the  brilliant  ones  of  Wisconsin 
bend  above  the  settler,  we  are  brought  at  once  to  a  mutual  recogni- 
tion of  the  natural  bonds  that  bind  man  to  his  fellow,  and  learn  to 
acknowledge  gladly  all  our  human  ties,  and  with  an  especial  warmth 
those  which  unite  us  to  brethren  in  a  common  fortune. 

It  is  cheering  to  find  the  subjects  of  an  ancient  and  over-ripe 
civilization,  which  has  already  produced  some  ruinous  as  well  as 
some  splendid  fruits,  beginning  to  recognize  the  dignity  of  labor — 
at  least  beginning  to  own  that  labor  and  hard  living  are  not  neces- 
sarily degrading.  A  character  once  familiar  to  English  writers  and 
readers — that  of  a  younger  son,  too  proud  to  work,  and  too  self- 
indulgent  to  endure  the  privations  attendant  upon  small  means, 
existing  as  a  hanger-on  in  the  family,  of  the  heir — will  never  come 
within  the  cognizance  of  the  next  generation.  The  axiom  once 
accepted  that  a  man,  in  whatever  station,  is  exalted  and  not  debased 
by  work,  the  class  will  disappear.  Add  to  this  new  doctrine  a 
recognition  of  the  benefits  attending  self  denying  and  robust  per- 
sonal habits,  and  the  law  of  primogeniture  will  in  part  become  its 
own  antidote,  by  supplying  the  out  crops  of  the  great  Island  with  a 
class  of  settlers  at  once  hardy  and  generous,  thrifty  and  noble- 
minded.  Leaving  field  sports  to  their  elder  brothers,  these  more 
hopeful  sons  of  Old  England  will  make  sport  of  earnest,  and  feel 


134  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


none  the  less  proud  of  the  antlers  on  their  walls,  because  the  venison 
to  which  they  belonged  was  a  necessary  of  life  instead  of  a  luxury. 
People  who  have  only  heard  or  read  of  life  in  the  wilderness 
have  but  crude  notions  of  its  actual  characteristics.  No  way  of  life 
more  absolutely  requires  to  be  tried,  in  order  to  be  understood. 
The  accepted  idea  perhaps  includes  wolf-hunts,  and  bear-fights,  and 
deer-shooting ;  sleeping  in  the  woods,  fording  rivers,  following 
Indian  trails,  or  wading  streams  in  search  of  fish.  This  view  of 
things  is  a  poor  preparation  for  the  reality  of  life  in  the  wilderness. 
It  makes  charming  books,  as  witness  the  many  of  which  it  has 
formed  the  staple ;  but  for  the  plain  truth  of  the  matter,  such  as 
forces  itself  upon  every  man's  convictions  after  he  has  transferred  his 
domicile  and  his  household  gods  to  the  woods,  we  might  as  well  go 
to  the  melancholy  Jacques  where  he  lies 

*  Weeping  and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer'— 

for  a  practical  notion  of  forest  life.     It  is,  indeed  a  life  of  hardship, 
but,  *  with  a  difference.' 

Hardships  are  not  always  trials.  There  is  a  rousing  power  in 
wild  adventure,  which  makes  hunger  and  cold  and  hard  lodging 
and  press  of  danger  only  inspiring.  These  are  not  the  things  that 
try  the  souls  of  those  who  exchange  a  condition  of  high  civilization 
for  the  privations  of  the  woods.  Far  more  wearisome,  because 
somewhat  mortifying,  are  the  petty  circumstances  attending  the 
daily  cares  for  mere  subsistence  which  form  the  staple  of  sober 
existence  in  a  new  country  ;  where  a  man  goes  not  to  hunt  and  fish, 
but  to  repair  his  fortunes  by  industry  and  economy ;  to  '  buy  and 
sell  and  get  gain  ;'  to  win  the  treasures  of  the  soil  with  hands  used 
only  to  the  pen ;  to  fell  primeval  trees  with  an  axe  that  has  nevei 


BUSH-LIFE.  ]  35 


cut  anything  larger  than  a  fishing  rod.  Such  an  adventurer  may 
carry  everything  with  him  but  the  one  thing  needful, — habits 
suited  to  the  exigence.  Even  a  stout  frame  and  a  stout  heart  will 
not  suffice  at  first.  Time  alone  can  accomplish  the  assimilating 
process,  and  for  time  he  cannot  wait. 

Emigrants  are  apt,  at  the  outset,  to  feel  somewhat  of  reforming 
zeal.  They  have  just  left  regions  where  life  wears  a  smooth  aspect ; 
where  convention  hides  much  that  is  coarse  and  unpleasant ;  where 
the  round  of  human  business  and  duty  is  comprised  in  a  few  conve- 
nient formulas,  or  seems  to  be  so  ;  and  where  each  man,  using,  as  it 
were,  the  common  sense  and  experience  of  the  whole,  naturally 
fancies  himself  wiser  than  he  really  is,  and  where  he  is  indeed  prac- 
tically wiser  than  isolated  man  can  easily  be.  So  the  emigrant  feels 
as  if  he  had  much  to  tell ;  something  to  teach,  as  well  as  something 
to  learn.  If  he  must  depend  somewhat  on  his  neighbors  for  an 
insight  into  the  peculiar  needs  of  his  new  position,  he  is  disposed  to" 
return  the  favor  by  correcting,  both  by  precept  and  example,  some 
of  the  awkward  habits,  the  ear-wounding  modes  of  speech,  and 
unnecessary  coarseness  which  he  sees  about  him.  Above  ah1  does 
he  determine  that  the  excellent  treatise  on  farming  which  he  has 
studied  and  brought  with  him,  shall  aid  him  in  introducing,  before 
very  long,  something  h'ke  a  rational  system,  instead  of  the  short- 
sighted, slovenly,  losing,  hand-to-mouth  practices  which  are  wasting 
the  riches  of  the  land. 

The  waking-up  is  quite  amusing.  To  find  that  nobody  perceives 
his  own  deficiencies,  while  everybody  is  taking  great  pains  to  make 
yours  apparent ;  that  your  knowledge  is  considered  among  your 
chief  disabilities ;  that  you  are,  in  short,  looked  upon  as  a  pitiable 
ignoramus,  stuffed  only  with  useless  fancies,  offensive  pride,  silly  fas- 
tidiousness, and  childish  love  of  trifles ;  that  your  grand  farming 


136  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


theories  are  laughed  at,  and  your  social  refinements  viewed  as  indi- 
cating a  sad  lack  of  common  sense  and  good  feeling ; — the  blank 
and  helpless  sense  of  unfituess  that  comes  over  one  under  such  cir- 
cumstances is  indescribable.  This  is  always  supposing  that  you  aro 
unequal  to  bodily  labor.  If  you  can  chop  or  plough,  there  is  con- 
fessed to  be  something  of  you,  even  though  your  ideas  be  si"^ 
But  if,  coming  from  a  land  where  head  is  all-powerful  and  hand 
only  subservient,  your  muscles  are  feeble  and  your  brain  active,  you 
must  be  content  with  the  position  of  an  inferior,  and  for  awhile  play 
the  part  of  a  child  in  the  hands  of  older  and  wiser  people. 

This  aspect  of  Bush-life  lacks  the  pleasant  stimulants  with  which 
the  imagination  is  apt  to  invest  it.  Where  are  the  hunting  and 
fishing  which  were  to  cheer  your  leisure  hours  \  You  have  no 
leisure  hours  ;  and  if  you  had,  to  spend  them  in  hunting  and  fish- 
ing would  set  you  down  at  once  as  a  '  loafer' — the  last  term  of  con- 
demnation where  everybody  works  all  the  time  ;  lives  to  work  rathei 
than  works  to  live.  Your  fine  forest  dreams  give  way  before  the 
necessity  for  '  clearing.'  If  you  take  a  morning  walk  over  the 
breezy  hills,  it  will  probably  be  in  search  of  a  stray  cow ;  and  you 
may  find  it  necessary  to  prolong  your  stroll  indefinitely,  returning, 
under  the  blazing  sun  of  noon,  to  dinner  instead  of  breakfast. 
Your  delightful,  uninterrupted  evenings,  where  so  many  books  were 
to  be  devoured,  in  order  to  maintain  a  counter-influence  to  the 
homely  toils  of  the  day,  must  be  sacrificed,  perhaps,  to  sleep,  in 
order  to  be  ready  for  an  early  start  in  the  morning,  in  search  of 
additional  *  hands'  at  the  threshing,  or  that  most  valuable  and  most 
slippery  of  all  earthly  goods  in  the  new  country — a  *  hired  girl.'  If 
you  chance  to  have  an  old  friend  undergoing  a  similar  probation  ten 
or  twenty  miles  off,  and  feeling  a  yearning  desire  to  seek  counsel  or 
sympathy  at  his  hands,  be  sure  that  after  you  have  made  up  your 


BUSH-LIFE.  131 

mind  to  sacrifice  everything  to  this  coveted  visit,  which  you  feel  will 
set  you  up  in  courage  for  a  month  to  come,  you  will  find  you  '  can- 
not have  the  horses,'  without  such  a  derangement  of  the  business  at 
home  as  would  bespeak  an  insane  disregard  of  your  interest,  and 
lead  your  whole  dependency  to  look  upon  you  as  a  fool  past  pray- 
ing for. 

Has  new-country  life,  then,  no  pleasures  ?  Many  ;  but  they  are 
not  exactly  those  we  anticipate.  To  recur  to  the  testimony  with 
which  our  musings  began.  '  None  can  tell  how  dear  the  memory 
of  that  wild  Bush-life  becomes  to  him  who  has  tried  'it  with  a  fitting 
spirit  /'  And  it  could  hardly  become  dear  to  the  cultivated,  if  it 
were  that  mere  dull,  mechanical,  animal,  grubbing  existence  that 
some  suppose  it  to  be.  Wherein  then  consists  the  charm  ?  It  is 
hard  to  specify  5  for,  like  other  charms,  it  has  something  of  inexpli- 
cable magic  in  it.  "We  spend  our  lives  here  in  weaving  nets  for 
ourselves,  yet  we  delight  to  throw  them  off;  even  as  the  merchant 
who  prides  himself  on  the  well-fitted  coat,  the  neat  cravat,  the  spot- 
less gloves,  the  shining  boots,  in  which  he  proceeds  to  his  counting- 
house  in  the  morning,  enjoys  with  all  his  heart  the  privilege  of 
exchanging  them  for  the  easy  douillette,  soft  slippers,  and  general 
neglige  of  a  quiet  evening  at  home.  Dress,  and  ceremony,  and 
formal  behavior  seem  necessary  in  the  city — seem,  not  are — for 
humanity  is  more  truly  dignified  than  convention,  and  more  effective 
in  every  way  ; — but  in  the  woods  we  may  follow  nature — dress  to  be 
warm  or  to  be  easy,  or  to  be  picturesque,  if  we  like,  without  shock- 
ing anybody.  We  have  in  town  perhaps  all  the  essentials  of 
liberty ;  we  are  more  alone  and  independent  in  a  crowd  than  in  a 
thinly  settled  neighborhood ;  but  in  the  country  we  have  the  sense 
of  liberty ;  the  free  breezes  suggest  it ;  the  wide  expanse  of  pros- 
pect ;  the  unconstrained  manners  of  those  about  us ;  the  undis- 


138  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


guised  prominence  of  the  common  matters  of  daily  life — so  carefully 
kept  out  of  sight  in  our  anxious  refinement ;  all  remind  us  and 
seem  to  us  symbolical  of  an  ideal  liberty.  There  are  no  fixed 
'  business  hours'  or  '  visiting  hours ;'  we  may  work  all  day  if  we 
like,  or  we  may  make  a  call  at  seven  in  the  morning ;  and  although 
we  shall  never  care  to  do  these  particular  things,  it  is  yet  pleasant 
to  think  we  may  do  them.  It  is  true,  other  people's  large  liberty 
sometimes  infringes  a  little  on  ours ;  but  after  all,  there  is  a  vast 
surplus  in  our  favor,  since  we  have  really  more  of  it,  with  all  chance 
deductions,  than  we  know  what  to  do  with.  The  idea — the  feeling 
— is  the  main  thing.  This  is  certainly  the  chief  source  of  the  fasci- 
nation of  a  wild  western  life. 

The  inspiring  influence  of  progress  is  however  very  potent  in  its 
way.  To  see  everything  about  you  constantly  improving,  is  delight- 
ful. There  is  an  impression  of  young,  joyous  life  in  such  a  state  of 
society.  As  the  breath  and  atmosphere  of  infancy  is  said  to  infuse 
new  animal  spirits  into  the  sluggish  veins  of  age,  so  the  fresh  move- 
ment of  new-country  life  stirs  the  pulses  of  him  who  has  long  made 
part  of  a  social  system  which  claims  to  have  discovered  everything 
and  settled  everything,  and  to  be  resting  on  the  result  of  past  effort. 
If  it  be  happiness  to  have  all  one's  faculties  in  constant  and  profita- 
ble use,  the  dweller  in  the  woods  should  be  happy,  for  every  day 
brings  new  calls  upon  his  powers  ;  upon  his  ingenuity,  his  industry 
his  patience,  his  energy.  Let  him  be  '  many-sided'  or  even  *  myriad- 
minded,'  he  will  find  use  for  all  his  faculties ;  it  is  only  one-sided 
people — of  whom  there  are,  alas  !  so  many — who  find  Bush-life 
intolerable. 

This  calling  out  of  one's  powers  certainly  gives  a  new  aspect  to 
many  things  that  would  seem  intolerable  if  we  were  so  placed  as  to 
depend  on  the  services  of  others.  There  is  something  in  human 


BUSH-LIFE.  139 


nature  which  glories  in  performance,  be  the  matter  ever  so  humble. 
We  might  stand  by  in  irrepressible  impatience  to  see  another  bung- 
ling at  some  expedient,  which  appears  very  tolerable  when  it  is  our 
own  work,  as  we  have  seen  a  gentleman  really  vain-glorious  of  a 
garden-gate  of  his  own  manufacture,  which  he  would  have  dis- 
charged a  workman  for  making.  We  put  a  portion  of  our  very 
selves  into  these  rude  specimens  of  our  handiwork,  and  we  love 
them  with  a  most  paternal  affection  as  long  as  they  last.  Is  not 
some  of  the  ennui  of  life  referable  to  a  disregard  of  this  hint  of 
nature  ?  Would  not  something  of  the  vapidity  of  which  the  spoiled 
children  of  refinement  complain  be  remedied  by  the  habit  of  doing 
something  for  ourselves — even  if  it  were  imperfectly  done — instead 
of  requiring  the  incessant  intervention  of  servants  and  tradespeople  ? 
It  would  perhaps  not  be  easy  to  find  a  rich  man  who  is  odd  enough 
to  keep  an  amateur  work-bench,  or  a  lady  bold  enough  to  perform 
some  of  the  lighter  household  duties,  suffering  from  that  disgust  of 
life  which  is  the  torture  of  some  of  the  idle.  It  is  at  least  certain 
that  dyspepsia  is  a  complaint  unknown  in  the  woods  ! 

The  enjoyment  of  health  is  then  another  of  the  pleasant  things  of 
true  rustic  life.  (We  talk  not  of  agues  !  They  must  be  caught  and 
let  go  again — endured  and  forgotten — before  one  can  know  how 
truly  healthy  our  western  country  and  its  out-door  habits  are.) 
After  one  is  acclimated,  there  is  probably  no  more  favorable  climate 
for  health  and  longevity  in  the  temperate  zones.  No  skies — not  the 
boasted  ones  of  Italy — are  clearer ;  their  transparency  is  even 
remarked,  not  only  by  Englishmen,  but  by  our  own  countrymen 
from  the  Atlantic  shores.  The  stars  and  the  aurora  seem  brighter 
there  than  elsewhere,  and  a  long  succession  of  brilliantly  clear  days 
is  too  common  an  occurrence  to  be  noticed.  This  naturally  contri- 
butes to  good  health  and  good  spirits ;  and  if  people  have  sense 


140  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


enough  to  live  with  some  attention  to  the  laws  of  health,  they  may 
defy  the  druggist,  and  live  till  they  drain  existence  to  the  lees,  enjoy- 
ing the  draught  more  and  more  as  years  mellow  its  flavor. 

Do  our  western  population  generally  make  as  much  of  their 
health-privilege  as  they  are  sure  to  do  of  a  '  water-privilege'  ? 
Alas  !  where  ague  kills  its  units,  hot  bread,  hot  meat,  pickles, 
and  strong  tea — to  say  nothing  of  accursed  whiskey — slay  their 
tens  of  thousands.  No  people  live  so  insanely  as  our  western 
brethren  ;  in  truth,  nothing  but  the  kind  and  genial  climate 
saves  them  from  the  complication  of  horrid  ills  which  beset  the 
gourmand  in  our  old  cities.  Butter  is  considered  rather  more  a 
necessary  of  life  than  bread ;  in  fact  that  which  we  call  bread  is 
almost  unknown  in  some  regions,  hot  cakes  supplying  its  place  at 
every  meal.  The  "  staff  of  life,"  however,  is  tea — strong,  green  tea. 
This  is  usually  taken,  unless  poverty  forbid,  with  breakfast,  dinner, 
and  supper,  and  without  milk  or  sugar.  With  this  is  eaten  fried  ' 
meat,  almost  universally  (we  speak  throughout  exclusively  of  country 
habits),  fried  and  swimming  in  fat.  Infants  partake  of  all  these 
things  ;  and  if  they  are  teething  and  fretful,  they  often  have  a  peeled 
cucumber  given  them  to  nibble,  by  way  of  quietus,  which  indeed  it 
may  be  supposed  admirably  calculated  to  become.  That  many  young 
children  die  is  therefore  less  astonishing  than  that  some  live.  Those 
who  do  survive  probably  owe  their  chance  of  future  years'  hot 
bread  to  their  being  allowed  to  creep  about  in  the  open  air  as  soon 
as  they  are  old  enough  to  be  out  of  the  mother's  arms.  The  fine 
climate  does  all  it  can  for  them,  and  it  does  everything  for  those 
who  will  accept  its  kind  ministering. 

No  inconsiderable  variety  and  amusement  are  produced  by  the 
unfettered  agency  of  nature  and  natural  objects.  Where  the  earth 
is  hidden  under  piles  of  stone,  nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  can 


BUSH-LIFE.  141 

produce  very  striking  occurrences  of  a  natural  kind  j  but  in  the 
woods,  hardly  a  day  passes  without  something  noticeable  in  earth, 
air,  or  water,  or  among  their  denizens.  Tom  Stiles,  in  felling  a 
huge  old  oak,  brings  to  light  perhaps  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
of  honey,  which  turns  the  whole  neighborhood  into  a  bee-hive  for 
the  nonce.  John  Nokes,  mowing  without  boots,  gets  bitten  by  a 
rattlesnake,  and  a  thrill  of  sympathy  runs  through  the  settlement. 
The  road  to  his  house  is  thronged  with  people  from  far  and  near, 
coming  to  urge  remedies — all  infallible — and  to  offer  aid  as  nurses 
or  watchers.  Perhaps  the  musk-rats  work  so  stealthily  and  so  well 
that  the  mill-dam  will  be  completely  riddled  or  undermined,  and 
the  whole  pond  will  run  away  in  the  night,  leaving  a  huge  scoop  of 
lon^j  grass  and  stumps  instead  of  the  fair  expanse  of  water  which 
the  setting  sun  delighted  to  dye  with  crimson  and  purple.  Then 
every  hand  that  can  be  hired  is  in  requisition,  and  everybody  who 
is  not  hirable  thinks  it  necessary  to  spend  nearly  the  whole  time  in 
looking  on,  lamenting,  suggesting,  advising,  and  prognosticating. 
Now  the  great  business  of  the  young  men  and  boys  is  setting  traps 
for  quails  and  prairie-hens,  and  again  eveiy  fallow  is  bespread  with 

nets  to  catch  pigeons ;  or  perhaps  Mr.  A ,  after  sitting  up  all 

night  to  watch  for  the  fox  that  robs  his  henroost  of  late,  comes  very 

near  shooting  that '  loafer,'  Sam  B ,  who,  though  he  will  not 

work,  unreasonably  .continues  to  eat,  and  of  the  fat  of  the  land  too. 
Or  poor  John  Smith's  stick  chimney  takes  fire  and  burns  his  house 
and  all  that  is  in  it,  hardly  excepting  his  wife  and  children.  Then 
somebody  must  take  wagon  and  horses  and  thread  the  whole  region 
round  about  for  aid  in  the  shape  of  clothing,  provisions,  furniture' 
fanning  utensils  and  stock,  to  set  him  up  again ;  while  the  neighbors 
fall  to  chopping  and  notching  logs  for  a  new  house,  and  finish  by 
having  a  famous  raising  and  installing  the  sufferers  in  their  rejuve- 


142  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


nated  domicile,  with  perhaps  more  of  worldly  goods  than  the  fire 
found  to  consume,  and  hearts  full  of  gratitude  and  joy. 

1  Do  these  things  and  all  that  they  typify  seem  trifles  ?  Those 
whose  hearts  quake  at  the  rise  and  fall  of  stocks  should  be  ashamed 
to  call  them  so.  To  the  dweller  in  the  woods  they  can  never  be 
trifles.  And  this  brings  us  to  what  is  perhaps  after  all  the  secret 
charm  of  a  life  far  removed  from  pride  and  formality — the  feeling 
of  brotherhood.  There  is  in  every  human  heart  not  totally  sophis- 
ticated, a  capacity  for  this ;  but  where  men  are  crowded  together  in 
large  cities,  or  subjected  to  the  friction  of  keen  and  pitiless  competi- 
tion, it  is  well-nigh  obliterated.  Where  all  that  each  man  gains 
may  be  said  in  some  sense  to  be  so  much  abstracted  from  the  com- 
mon stock,  and  where  the  brotherly  feeling  is  not  kept  awake  by 
any  obvious  dependence  upon  others,  individualism  and  selfishness 
are  too  apt  to  prevail.  But  when,  on  the  contrary,  whatever  each 
man  does  for  his  own  profit  is  sure  to  turn  to  the  advantage  of  all 
about  him  ;  when  the  means  of  life  and  comfort  are  drawn  directly 
from  the  bounteous  bosom  of  earth,  not  impoverishing,  but 
enriching  the  source  and  fitting  it  the  better  to  afford  wealth 
to  a  coming  generation ;  when  the  circumstances  of  life  are  such 
that  each  man  is  obliged  to  be  personally  indebted  to  his  neighbor 
for  many  of  those  offices  which  affect  most  nearly  our  business  and 
bosom,  while  common  toils  compel  contact  and  consultation,  and  the 
state  of  things  is  adverse  to  any  separation  by  ceremony — all  the 
bonds  of  life  are  drawn  closer ;  the  heart  is  obliged  to  act,  and  the 
tone  of  manners  becomes  freer  and  more  genial ;  less  polite  perhaps, 
but  more  humane ;  and  afte,r  some  little  experience  of  this,  a  return 
to  the  cold  polish  of  city  intercourse  seems  indeed  a  plunging  into 

frigid  impertinences,' — a  descent  from  the  free  mountain  air  which 


BUSH-LIFE.  143 


braces  every  nerve  to  health  and  pleasure,  to  the  calmer  but  more 
stagnant  atmosphere  of  the  plain. 

The  days  of  this  fresh  aspect  of  things  are  passing  away.  Tho 
influence  of  wealth  and  of  facilitated  intercourse  will  before  very 
long  produce  a  great  equalization  of  manners.  The  West  has 
already  tinged  not  a  little,  as  we  said  before,  the  social  intercourse 
of  the  East  in  our  country.  We  adopt  her  humorous  expressions 
and  even  her  scorn  of  the  cherished  conventions  of  the  Old  World. 
To  be  '  manly'- is  more  prized  among  us  than  to  be  '  elegant,'  even 
while  we  are  reaching  after  liveries  and  other  antiquated  remnants 
of  the  pride  of  the  dark  ages.  Our  gentlemen  print  their  cards 
with  names  ungraced  by  even  the  commonest  title,  leaving  the  *  Mr.7 
which  used  to  be  felt  essential,  to  chiropodists  and  other  pretenders. 
All  this  while  the  West  is  disposed  to  take  up  the  politenesses  we  lay 
down,  and  her  ambition  is  such  that  it  will  not  be  wonderful  if  she 
should  in  time  devise  some  original  ones  of  her  own,  so  that  to  our 
descendants  at  no  very  remote  distance,  it  may  perhaps  be  hardly 
credible  that  the  distinction  between  western  manners  and  those  of 
the  older  settled  parts  of  the  countiy  was  ever  as  great  as  it  has 
really  been  up  to  our  day. 

But  it  is  a  state  of  things  worth  remembering.  In  an  age  and 
country  where  everything  is  doing,  some  things  run  the  risk  of  being 
forgotten,  for  who  can  afford  time  for  the  '  slow'  business  of  chroni- 
cling, in  the  very  face  of  the  lightning-flashes  which  are*  melting 
into  one  the  Present,  Past,  and  Future  ?  With  so  much  to  accom- 
plish for  ourselves,  can  we  be  expected  to  think  of  the  coming  age, 
whose  wings  already  fan  our  faces  ?  When  golden  splendors  are 
dawning,  is  it  worth  while  to  fix  on  the  canvas,  the  sober  hue  of 
twilight  ? 

For  the  sake  of  contrast,  at  least,  let  us  preserve  a  clear  recollec- 


144  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


tion  of  the  great  West  in  her  dress  of  '  hoddin  gray, '  by  way  of 
assthetic,  not  humiliating  contrast ;  as  the  rough  disguise  thrown 
off  by  the  triumphant  hero  of  the  drama  imparts  new  splendor  to 
the  robes  he  has  been  only  veiling  beneath  it ;  or,  more  nearly,  as 
the  sun,  in  his  might,  turns  the  bars  of  purple  cloud  which  for  awhile 
obscured  his  disk,  into  a  glorious  ladder  for  his  ascent  to  the  meri- 
dian. 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD, 

I  AM  fond  of  streets.  If  I  had  the  uncontrolled  chaperoning  of 
an  intelligent  sight-seer,  I  should  begin  with  the  streets  of  a  city, 
and  thread  them  thoroughly  before  I  sought  out  the  accredited  lions. 
Streets  have  a  physiognomy,  and  very  expressive  it  is.  A  stranger 
feels  this  directly.  The  impression  is  derived  from  many  circum- 
stances, of  course  ;  and  these  may  all  be  sought  out  and  specified ; 
but  we  shall  none  the  less  feel  that  the  whole  is  typical ;  and  wo 
shall  find  ourselves  lonely  or  at  home,  sad  or  amused,  according  as 
we  interpret  the  general  aspect  of  a  place  which  we  visit  for  the  first 
time. 

It  is  not  easy  for  a.  life-denizen  to  imagine  how  our  goodly  city 
of  New  York  may  strike  a  stranger ;  but  we  are  often  assured  by 
country  friends  that  the  air  of  bustle  is  almost  terrific,  and  that  the 
commercial  roar  produces  a  temporary  deafness,  very  confusing  to 
the  new-comer.  It  is  said,  too,  that  our  citizens  cariy  their  business 
in  their  faces  more  than  is  usual :  so  that  those,  who  come  for 
amusement  see  at  first  little  prospect  of  it,  or  at  least  little  hope  of 
sympathy  in  it.  Nothing  is  more  common,  therefore,  than  for 


146  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


strangers  to  dislike  New  York  at  first ;  while  nothing  is  more  cer- 
tain than  they  will  become  very  fond  of  it  in  a  little  while. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  first  striking  thing  in  the  aspect  of  our  city 
to  a  stranger  must  be  unswept  and  jolting  pavements.  Sad  !  to  feel 
that  we  receive  our  friends  with  a  dirty  face  and  unseemly  costume, 
and  can  hardly  hope  to  do  otherwise  while  our  present  civic  maxims 
or  no  maxims  prevail.  Since  l  polities'  is  given  as  the  cause  of  this 
disgrace,  it  is  no  wonder  that  ill-natured  people  accuse  us  of  '  dirty 
politics  ;'  but  good-natured  visitors  turn  their  eyes  and  thoughts  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  the  substantial  elegance  of  our  buildings,  and 
the  richness  and  abundance  of  our  merchandize,  in  the  principal 
streets.  Prosperity  is  the  prevailing  expression;  a  life  springing 
from  deep  fountains  ;  a  grand  flowering  from  golden  roots  ;  a  hope- 
ful reaching  after  more  splendid  successes  ;  it  must  be  a  poor  per- 
ceptive faculty  that  does  not  feel  the  influence  of  these  on  first 
threading  our  broad  thoroughfares.  It  is  perhaps  the  very  sense  of 
all  this  that  discourages  some  quiet  and  modest  people  who  have 
been  accustomed  to  take  the  world  easy,  and  be  content  with  its 
humbler  gifts  and  products. 

But  we  are  not  all  hurry  and  bustle,  brick  and  mortar,  carts  and 
omnibusses.  Many  a  quiet,  airy,  smooth  and  comfortable  spot  may 
be  found,  where  there  is  still  a  confession  of  the  love  we  all  bear  to 
green  fields  and  cool  waters.  Poor  and  inadequate  as  our  parks 
confessedly  are,  it  were  ungracious  not  to  count  them  among  the 
expressive  points  of  the  city.  Let  us  walk  in  them  and  try  to 
appreciate  the  delicious  contrast  between  the  fresh,  inimitable  works 
of  God,  and  the  ambitious  poverty  of  man's  doings  ?  Look  at 
those  living,  waving  trees,  describing  with  every  passing  breeze  all 
the  lines  of  beauty,  the  dwellings  of  the  bird  and  the  bee,  givers  of 
cool  shadows  to  the  weary ;  the  very  sight  of  them  is  pleasant  to 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.  147 


the  soul,  bringing  back  soft  memories  of  early  days,  when  cost 
entered  not  into  our  estimate  of  the  beautiful,  and  when  the  heart's 
avenues  were  open  to  every  simple  and  natural  enjoyment ;  when 
the  spring-time  was  a  jubilee  for  us  as  well  as  for  the  birds  and 
grasshoppers,  because  we  had  as  little  thought  for  the  morrow. 
Then  the  grass — a  velvet  that  no  earthly  loom  can  imitate — how 
grateful  both  to  foot  and  eye — how  its  moisture  tempers  the  burn- 
ing noon,  and  gives  back  the  parting  sunbeam — what  a  glory  it 
receives  from  the  contrast  of  the  stony  pathway,  looking  like  fresh- 
hearted  enthusiasm  by  the  side  of  the  hardness  of  the  mere  man  of 
the  world ! 

But  as  the  crown  of  all — the  parent  and  auxiliary  of  the  trees 
and  the  grass — we  must  count  among  our  blessings  the  Fountain — 
fit  emblem  of  spontaneous  and  ungrudging  goodness — gentle  minis- 
ter of  music  and  freshness — unconscious  wearer  of  pearls  inumerable, 
giving  back  rainbows  to  the  sunbeams,  and  breaking  into  dimples 
beneath  the  shower.  Here  nature  is  indeed  indebted  to  man  ;  here 
is  an  offset  to  the  proud  pil^s  which  would  fain  crush  out  her 
beauty,  and  banish  her  more  common  aspect  from  his  costly  haunts. 
In  these  silver  showers — ascending  like  prayers,  to  return  like  them 
in  silent  but  life-giving  dews — we  make  compensation  for  such 
slighting  of  the  good  gifts  of  the  universal  Mother.  If  we  made 
as  beneficial  use  of  all-  the  materials  she  so  bountifully  offers  us,  we 
might  appropriate  her  smiles  without  self-reproach. 

Ignominiously  as  we  treat  the  face  of  nature  for  our  own  selfish 
purposes,  hiding  it  under  stones  as  if  it  were  not  fit  to  be  seen — 
how  benignly  she  forgets  it  all,  and  smiles  upon  us  wherever  we 
will  let  her  ?  Not  a  crevice  in  the  close-rammed  flagging  but  shows 
a  bright  fringe  of  green  after  every  shower ;  not  a  vacant  lot  but 
dresses  itself  in  beauty,  though  trodden  only  by  chiffoniers  and  coal- 


148  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 

sifters,  and  used  but  by  the  children  of  vice  and  misery  for  the  sort- 
ing of  their  pickings  and  stealings.  The  boundless  munificence — 
the  bursting  plenty  of  nature,  seems  never  more  striking  than  in 
these  manifestations  of  productive  power  under  every  disadvantage. 

Speaking  of  the  aspect  our  city  must  wear  to  the  eye  of  a 
stranger,  reminds  me  how  little  we  know  of  it  ourselves  ;  how  we 
thread  its  avenues  on  our  business  and  pleasure  without  a  thought 
of  what  they  are  and  what  they  mean — teeming  with  human  life, 
human  wants  and  woes,  hopes  and  achievements.  Our  ceaseless 
habit  of  pursuit  forgets  to  take  cognizance  of  all  but  itself.  Street 
pictures  are  for  strangers  only.  We  who  are  at  home  think  of  our 
great  thoroughfares  only  as  the  means  of  access  to  somewhere  else, 
while  to  eyes  from  abroad  they  are  the  reflex  of  ourselves. 

We  must  be  allowed  to  flatter  ourselves  that  they  are  very  good- 
natured  streets.  Can  anybody  tell  of  harsh  treatment  to  the  way- 
farer who  would  makes  inquiries  as  he  walks — to  the  little  child  in 
danger  from  the  rush  of  carriages— to  the  beggar  who  sits  plaintive 
by  the  way-side  ?  Accidents  we  haye — too  many  ;  they  are  inci- 
dent to  hurry ;  but  rude  behavior  is  hardly  known,  certainly  not 
characteristic.  Let  us  hold  fast  by  this  ;  it  is  better  worth  boasting 
of  than  some  things  of  which  we  hear  more.  We  are  a  sympathetic 
people,  at  worst. 

Few  of  our  readers,  perhaps,  know  anything  of  the  aspect  of 
summer  morning  in  the  city.  It  is  worth  getting  up  to  see.  I 
do  not  speak  of  sunrise  ;  it  may  seem  incredible  to  some,  but  it  is 
feally  day  a  long  time  before  the  sun  begins  to  set  the  east  on  fire 
with  the  far-spreading  gold  that  forms  so  magnificent  a  back-ground 
for  chimneys  and  steeples.  And  further,  there  are  classes  of  people 
awake  and  astir  hours  before  the  sun,  in  order  that  all  the  breakfast 
delicacies  may  be  ready  for  Miss  Julia  and  her  mamma,  when  they 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.    149 


choose  to  enhance  the  day  by  opening  their  eyes.  One  may  know 
the  hour  on  a  clear  warm  morning,  by  the  earliest  rumble  of  grocers' 
and  market-mens'  carts.  It  is  then  three  o'clock,  as  near  as  may 
be,  and  many  of  the  wheels  sound  as  if  they  were  still  very  sleepy, 
while  others  dash  along  with  desperate  resolution,  shaking  the  win- 
dows as  they  pass.  After  this  earliest  squad — this  van-guard  of 
the  industrial  army — has  passed,  there  usually  occurs  a  considerable 
interval.  It  seems  at  first  like  silence,  but  after  the  ear  vibration 
has  subsided  a  little,  one  becomes  aware  of  the  crowing  of  innu- 
merable cocks — public-spirited  creatures,  who  do  their  best  to  arouse 
the  lazy,  and  apparently  nearly  split  their  throats  in  the  service.  I 
have  little  doubt  they  steal  a  later  nap  now  and  then,  after  waking 
all  the  neighbors.  I  know  several  housewives  who  do  this,  as  soon 
as  they  are  sure  every  soul  in  the  house  is  afoot.  Hunt  speaks  of 
the  pleasure  of  *  being  in  bed  at  your  ease,  united  with  the  highest 
kind  of  advantage  over  the  person  that  is  up.  *  It  is  a  lordly  thing,!, 
he  says,  '  to  consider  that  others  are  up  and  nobly  doing  some  duty 
or  other,  with  sleepy  eyes,  while  we  ourselves  are  exquisitely  shut- 
ting ours.'  This  is  a  kind  of  lordliness  enjoyed  by  many  during 
the  morning  hour,  but  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  they  have  the 
best  of  it.  On  the  contrary,  much  observation  of  the  getting-up 
class  leads  me  to  believe,  that  in  a  fine  flow  of  spirits  to  begin  the 
day  with,  they  have  something  of  which  to  boast  over  those  who 
are  more  intentionally  luxurious. ' 

The  earliest  wheeler  through  the  street  after  daylight  is  the  milk- 
man, and  of  all  he  is  the  most  joyous.  Mark  the  air  with  which 
he  clatters  up  to  the  kerb-stone,  so  close  that  the  slope  of  the  street 
gives  his  frail  wagon  the  veiy  last  cant  it  will  bear  without  upsetting 
his  tall  cans  and  the  vehicle  together.  Then  hear  the  cheery  whoop 


150  THE   EVENING    BOOK. 


with,  which  he  calls  out  the  sleepy  damsel  of  the  kitchen — not  a 
:  ^aintive  semi-tone  like  the  charcoal-man's, 


i 


Char  -  coal !        Char  -  coal ! 

nor  a  sad  minor,  like  the  fruit-womans,  nor  the  octave  in  which  the 
anxious  mother  calls  her  truant  boy,  thus  : 


Jem    -     my ! 


but  a  wild,  funny,  unwriteable  howl,  expressive  at  once  of  haste, 
good-humor  and  good  understanding  with  the  cook,  who  is  to  pop 
up  from  the  area.  If  she  does  not  come  at  once — and  she  seldom 
does — liking  '  lordliness'  perhaps,  as  well  as  her  lady — the  jolly 
milk-man  shouts  once  more,  with  the  addition  of  '  wide  awake !'  or, 
*  all  alive  now !'  or  '  come,  my  girl !'  though  this  last  is  generally 
reserved  till  the  papilloted  head  comes  in  sight.  With  the  earlier 
milk-men  this  is  all ;  for  there  is  something  of  a  sobering  effect  in 
the  cool  morning  air.  But  the  later  ones,  warmed  with  the  sun, 
and  perhaps  somewhat  exhilarated  by  much  whooping  and  the  sight 
of  a  good  many  pretty  faces,  sometimes  venture  upon  little  tricks ; 
like  one  I  witnessed  lately.  The  girl  was  sweeping  the  side-walk 
when  the  cart  drew  up,  and  she  dropt  her  broom  and  ran  in  for  the 
pitcher.  The  moment  her  back  was  turned,  the  milk-man  jumped 
out  of  his  cart,  seized  the  broom,  hid  it  behind  a  tree,  and  was  in 
his  seat  again  in  an  instant,  looking  laboriously  unconscious.  When 
the  damsel  came  with  the  pitcher,  she  glanced  round  after  her 
broom,  but  said  nothing ;  but,  while  the  milk  was  lading  out,  slyly 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.  151 


stole  the  whip  from  the  station  where  it  hung  jauntily  outward,  and 
put  it  behind  her  back  unobserved.  The  milk-man  handed  her  the 
pitcher  before  he  perceived  the  theft,  but  it  was  only  an  instant. 
And  then  such  a  leap,  such  a  flight,  such  a  laugh,  such  a  spilling ! 

After  the  milk-man  comes  the  baker — grave  and  sometimes 
crusty,  for  he  has  been  up  a  little  too  long.  The  oven-heat  of  his 
home,  too,  has  something  unnatural  and  exsiccating  about  it.  Your 
baker  has  his  face  ploughed  in  wrinkles,  from  the  solicitude  with 
which  he  watches  the  operation  of  his  leaven ;  or  he  is  tired  with 
working  the  cracker-machine.  At  any  rate  he  is  usually  of  the 
soberest,  especially  when  flour  is  low,  for  then  he  knows  people  will 
expect  large  loaves  ;  while  in  times  of  scarcity  he  may  make<  them 
unlimitedly  small,  pleading  the  necessity  of  the  case.  He  is  always 
slow  to  believe  in  the  fluctuation  of  prices  downward,  but  timid  and 
easily  alarmed  when  quotations  add  a  shilling  to  the  barrel.  He  is 
interested  too  in  the  price  of  potatoes,  and  they  do  say  in  that  of 
certain  mineral  substances ;  but  for  particulars  we  must  refer  the 
reader  to*  "  Accum  on  Culinary  Poisons." 

All  this  time,  ash-carts,  dirt-carts,  grocers'  carts  and  empty  carts 
haw  been  rumbling  along,  making  such  a  noise  that  one  can  scarcely 
hear  one's-self  think.  The  sun  has  risen  above  the  chimneys,  and 
the  rain  of  yesterday  glitters  on  the  oriental-looking  boughs  of  the 
ailanthus-trees,  as  the  light  breeze  makes  them  tremble.  Two  for- 
lorn rag-pickers  have-  already  made  a  minute  search  through  the 
neighborhood,  especially  in  a  vacant  lot  at  the  corner — a  sort  of 
Golgotha,  where  every  body  throws  every  thing  that  has  no  par- 
ticular destination,  and  some  things  that  'have — coal-ashes  for 
instance,  which  rise  there  in  mounds  that  threaten  to  rival  the  (I 
forget  its  name)  Hill  in  Rome,  whose  foundation  is  pot-sherds.  The 
golden  sun  now  glorifies  all,  however,  even  the  place  of  rubbish  and 


152  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


stramonium,  and  makes  the  long  rows  of  windows  in street 

blaze  with  splendor.  The  birds,  whose  twittering  song  passed 
unnoticed  during  our  observation  of  the  carts,  now  seem  newly 
•wakened,  and  fill  the  air  with  rural -ish  sounds — not  quite  rural,  for 
one  wonders  where  they  live — in  what  smoke-dried  and  dust- 
clogged  evergreens  and  altheas — for,  if  they  dared  build  in  the  street 
trees,  their  twitter  would  be  short.  Oh  !  the  grape-vines  with 
which  the  yards  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city  abound,  afford  them 
fine  shelter,  doubtless,  with  the  aid  of  the  few  fruit  trees  that  still 
hide  their  diminished  heads,  or  hang  them  over  the  neighbors'  fences 
low-spiritedly.  Much  of  the  singing,  at  this  later  hour,  must  be  from 
the  canaries  and  other  caged  birds  that  begin  to  show  at  the  open 
windows,  '  striving  which  can,  in  most  dainty  variety,  recount  their 
wrong-caused  sorrow.' 

The  ice-men,  chilled,  perhaps,  by  associations  belonging  to  their 
craft,  do  not  make  demonstrations  as  early  as  others.  Indeed,  it  is  but 
now  and  then  a  phenix  among  them  that  gives  you  your  ice  in  time 
for  breakfast.  But  when  they  do  come  they  have  a  hurrying,  jolly 
air,  that  is  very  pleasant  They  spring  out,  milkmanishly,  clinking 
the  great  dangerous-looking  tongs,  and,  grabbing  the  destined  lump 
with  a  decided  air,  make  it  swing  from  side  to  side.  But  look  into 
the  cart.  What  more  than  grotto-like  coolness  !  One  can  scarcely 
believe  that  those  enormous  blocks  are  '  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream 
again,'  or  that  now,  rocky  as  they  are,  one  could  split  them  with  a 
pin.  It  must  be  confessed  that,  ungainly  thing  as  an  ice-cart  is, 
with  its  straight,  poking,  green  body,  there  is  none,  of  all  that  pass 
on  a  hot  morning  like  this,  whose  rumble  is  so  musical. 

The  fruit-woman  are  all  this  time  chanticleering  along,  with  ever 
a  sad  tone  in  their  screeching.  It  may  be  fancy,  but  I  can  always 
hear  in  that  cry  a  complaint  of  some  sort.  I  hardly  know  how  to 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.  153 


interpret  it.  Perhaps  it  bespeaks  only  a  less  hopefull  nature  than 
animates  the  gay  milkman.  Or  it  may  relate  to  the  uncertainty 
attached  to  selling  so  perishable  an  article  as  fruit ;  or  to  the  remem- 
brance of  domestic  affairs  suffering  at  home,  while  the  mother  tries 
to  gain  a  few  pence  by  toiling  through  the  street,  hour  after  hour. 
Here  is  a  case  where  one  may  reasonably  wish  one's  toil  to  be  fruit- 
less ;  but  the  poor  woman  cannot  console  herself  with  quibbles. 
There  goes  one  who  has  a  chubby  daughter  with  her — one  walking 
on  one  side  of  the  street  and  the  other  opposite — both  screaming, 
but  alternately,  and  with  a  pretty  variance.  This  is  not  so  melan- 
choly ;  for  misery  even  on  a  small  scale,  loves  company. 

That  stout  Irishman,  lazily  pushing  the  pine-apple  cart,  is  a  con- 
trast to  the  anxious  fruit-woman.  His  face  expresses,  to  be  sure 
great  discontent  that  the  world  does  not  better  appreciate  the  merits 
of  a  son  of  Erin  than  to  allow  him  to  work  such  hot  weather  ;  but 
his  setting-forth  of  his  wares  has  a  funny  sound,  and  seems  to  defy 
fate.  I  should  like  him  better,  as  a  fruit-seller,  if  he  had  some  in- 
firmity (besides  whiskey),  for  it  seems  hard  that  able-bodied  men 
should  usurp  the  few  chances  that  feeble  people  and  women  have 
for  getting  bread. 

The  sweet  song  of  the  chimney-sweep  is  comparatively  rare  in 
these  anthracite  days.  But  what  music  the  dark-skinned  people, 
who  enjoy  this  profession  by  prescription,  can  make.  There  is  one 
who  passes  my  door  sometimes  with  an  Italian  recitative  in  the 
softest  tenor  voice,  yet  filling  the  air  with  a  volume  of  sound.  If 
nature  had  but  blanched  him  he  could  make  his  fortune  on  the  stage. 
As  it  is  they  would  not  let  him  sing  even  Otello. 

We  put  the  colored  man  into  funny  attempts  at  livery  sometimes 
— (American  liveries  !)  and  even,  for  certain  purposes,  in  uniform ; 
thus  allowing  him  to  stand  as  a  representative  of  the  two  things  we 
7* 


154  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


are  said  to  love  best — wealth  and  military  display.  In  whatever 
character  he  appears,  he  is  always  a  picturesque,  and,  to  unpreju- 
diced eyes,  an  agreeable  part  of  our  street  panorama.  He  is  so 
cheerful  by  nature  that  even  oppression  cannot  sadden  him,  and  so 
genial  and  good-natured  that  the  worst  training  and  the  most  dis- 
couraging circumstances  fail  to  make  him  morose.  I  have  been 
inclined  to  fancy,  at  times,  that  the  hatred  expressed  towards  the 
race  by  persons  of  certain  temperament,  was  only  resentment  at  their 
good  humor  and  patience.  We  do  not  like  to  see  people  so  much 
better  able  to  make  use  of  whatever  of  earthly  good  Providence 
allows  than  ourselves.  The  disposition  to  enjoy  is  Heaven's  blessing 
to  the  poor  colored  man,  and  it  gives  a  light  to  his  quaint  face 
hardly  ever  extinguished,  even  by  hopeless  toil  and  compulsory 
degradation. 

If  prosperity  be  the  expression  of  New  York  streets,  pride  seems 
to  me  that  of  the  great  thoroughfares  of  London,  even  where  com- 
merce reigns.  Our  streets  suggest  the  Future,  those  of  London  the 
Past.  London  feels  that  that  she  has  attained,  and  there  is  a  calm- 
ness even  in  her  bustle.  The  compulsive  Anglo-Saxon  element 
reduces  even  foreign  things  and  faces  in  London  to  a  certain  uniform- 
ity with  things  and  faces  English.  Consciousness  of  England  is 
written  all  over  everything  and  everybody.  The  Greatness  of  the 
land  is  a  Presence  from  which  none  can  escape.  In  Paris  one  may 
feel  like  a  citizen  of  the  world,  and  as  if  he  had  as  much  right  in 
the  Boulevart  and  the  Champs  Elysees  as  any  one  ;  in  London  he  is 
always  conscious  of  being  a  *  foreigner,'  and  only  on  suffrance.  This 
accounts  for  the  dislike  of  London  so  commonly  expressed  by 
Americans,  who1  are  notoriously  fond  of  Paris.  It  touches  an 
American  in  the  tenderest  point  to  be  made  to  feel  that  his  absence 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.    155 


would  be  at  least  as  agreeable  as  his  company,  and  this  he  always 
feels  in  England — in  London  particularly. 

The  streets  of  London  are  London  more  truly  and  peculiarly  than 
the  galleries  of  Art,  the  showplaces,  or  even  the  cathedrals, — for  it 
is  in  the  streets -that  we  see  the  people,  with  their  faces  full  of  every- 
day expression  ;  all  the  marks  of  national  bent  and  habit  displayed ; 
the  eagerness  of  gain,  the  lassitude  of  pleasure,  the  consciousness 
of  vice,  the  despair  of  poverty.  Wealth  is  more  fully  shown  in  the 
street  than  in  the  drawing-room,  for  the  splendors  of  a  night  may 
be  hired,  but  the  grandeur  and  exquisiteness  of  an  equipage  can 
hardly  fail,  to  an  instructed  eye,  to  represent  truly  the  fortune  and 
habits  of  its  possessor.  English  carriages  and  horses  are  confessedly 
the  most  elegant  and  perfect  in  the  world,  and  these  abound  at 
certain  hours  in  the  West-End  streets.  It -is  in  these  that  the  most 
striking  difference  exists,  to  the  traveller's  eye  between  London 
streets  and  those  of  our  cities.  One  is  ready  to  conclude  that  half 
the  people  in  London  have  carriages  of  their  own. 

But  the  countenance  and  manner  of  the  passers  on  foot  are  not 
more  like  those  we  meet  at  home  than  the  equipages.  The.  English 
are  a  more  natural-mannered,  and  of  course  a  more  individual 
people,  than  we  ;  and  they  arc  therefore  better  worth  looking  at  in 
the  street.  Far  from  wearing  a  street  face, — a  conventional  counte- 
nance, which  makes  palpable  reference  to  the  fashion  and  to  the 
opinion  of  the  passers-by,  one  has  the  impression  that  English  peo- 
ple look  as  they  feel,  or  at  least  just  as  they  have  a  mind  to  look. 
They  do  not  stare  at  those  they  meet ;  they  hardly  seem  to  see  you. 
There  is  no  rapid,  anxious  perusal  of  your  dress  in  passing.  Nobody 
but  the  policeman  at  the  corner  ever  looks  you  full  in  the  face,  as  if 
he  meant  to  know  you  again,  Except  in  the  Strand,  and  other 
exclusively  business-streets,  nobody  seems  in  a  hurry  ;  and  even  in 


156  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


those  crowded  thoroughfares  there  are  quite  enough  leisurely-looking 
people  to  remind  you  that  not  everybody  works,  in  England.  Driv- 
ing and  walking  are  both  necessarily  slow,  because  of  the  throng ; 
and  if  any  unexpected  detention  occur,  people  do  not  immediately 
become  frantic,  as  with  us.  Gentlemen's  servants,  in  undress  liveries, 
are  seen  mounted  on  fine  horses,  going  errands  at  a  very  moderate 
pace,  scarce  seeming  to  see  the  busy  faces  on  either  side,  but  looking 
sedulously  languid  and  abstracted,  as  if  they  were  thinking  of  Hyde 
Park  or  St.  James's  Street,  or  other  regions  far  removed  from  vulgar 
toil  and  bustle.  Now  and  then  a  gentleman  on  horseback,  followed 
closely  by  a  servant  in  drab  tights  and  gaiters  with  a  cockaded  hat, 
threads  his  quiet  way  towards  the  Bank,  his  very  eye  telling  you 
that  he  is  going  only  to  draw  money,  not  to  earn  or  make  it.  Now 
a  great,  open,  family  carriage,  with  mamma  and  governess  and  some 
neatly  dressed  children,  stops  before  a  book  or  toy-shop,  and  the 
footman  makes  journeys  back  and  forth,  and  anxious  shopmen  pass 
in  and  out,  while  the  occupants  of  the  carriage  wear  the  air  of  the 
most  enviable  tranquility,  till  the  last  article  is  offered  and  approved ; 
and  the  footman,  with  a  slight  sign  of  the  hand  to  the  coachman, 
jumps  to  his  place,  and  the  perfect  equipage  rolls  onward  as  if,  like 
heaven's  gates,  "  on  golden  hinges  turning."  But  the  most  nume- 
rous vehicles  are  one-horse  cabs,  which  are  used  by  all  ranks,  the 
hackney  ones  hired  at  very  cheap  rates,  and  private  ones  very  neat 
but  plain,  and  popular  with  those  who  can  do  as  they  like,  and  like 
to  be  comfortable  rather  than  splendid.  London  streets  set  us 
an  example  in  this  respect  which  it  would  be  well  to  consider. 

When  \ve  explore  the  West  End,  with  its  parks,  its  palaces,  its 
magnificent  breadths  and  still  more  magnificent  quietude,  we  are  as 
much  oppressed  with  the  weight  of  centuries  as  at  Thebes  or 
Jvarnak, 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.  157 


The  sense  of  how  long  it  must  have  taken  to  bring  these  things 
to  their  present  pass,  adds  an  element  of  sublimity  to  the  actual 
impression.  Every  house  is  so  jealously  guarded  from  intrusive 
eyes,  that  any  thought  of  neighborhood  or  community  is  precluded. 
Doors  are  attempted  only  by  servants,  for  no  bevies  of  ladies 
are  ever  seen  making  morning  calls  on  foot,  as  with  us.  Servants 
and  horses  are  the  only  living  creatures  that  move  on  the  pavement, 
if  we  except  xne  mechanics  and  tradespeople  required  by  those 
oyster-like  residences.  The  air  is  full  of  silence,  rendered  all  the 
deeper  by  the  distant  roar  of  the  peopled  city,  or  made  striking  by 
the  occasional  clatter  of  hoofs  and  wheels.  There  is  no  hint  or* 
common  life  at  those  aristocratic  doors.  Now  and  then  a  footman 
lingers  a  little  for  a  chat  with  a  pied  brother,  or  takes  a  look  up  and 
down  the  street  before  he  makes  all  fast  again  ;  but  when  he 
goes  in,  it  is  with  the  air  of  Robinson  Crusoe  retreating  into 
his  fortress  and  drawing  the  ladder  up  after  him. 

The  question  has  sometimes  occurred  to  me,  why  is  a  livery- 
servant  in  London  so  different  an  object  from  a  livery-servant  in 
New  York  1  In  London,  servants  in  livery  are  an  appropriate  and 
rather  fascinating  part  of  the  street  panorama.  I  speak  now  of 
everyday  liveries, — those  which  simply  mark  the  condition  of 
the  wearer,  and  indicate  to  the  initiated  the  distinguished  family  in 
whose  service  he  is.  State-liveries  are  quite  another  affair, — the 
most  horrid  caricatures  of  human  costume  ;  mere  grotesque 
disguises  in  the  worst  taste  ;  the  last  contortion  of  ingenious  pride  ; 
as  silly  as  the  whim  of  a  certain  exquisite  to  personate  a  game-cock 
at  a  masquerade,  with  the  additional  "  features"  of  clapping 
his  wings  and  crowing.  My  Anglo-Saxon  blood  boils  at  the 
sight  of  Englishmen  degraded  enough  to  be  proud  of  such  disguises. 
Yet  it  is  not  worth  while  to  consider  the  wearers  as  men,  while  they 


158  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


carry  about  these  strange  shells  of  lace  and  frippery: — they  are 
machines  ;  parts  of  a  system  ;  they  have  for  the  time  no  souls  of 
their  own ;  they  are  bought  and  sold,  in  effect,  by  virtue  of  a 
contract,  signed  with  the  vital  current  of  their  minds,  to  the  demon 
of  this  world,  the  deadly  antagonist  of  the  spirit  of  health  and  of  a 
sound  mind.  The  maximum  of  intelligence  to  be  found  under 
those  liveries  is  not  sufficient  to  build  a  shanty  in  the  Western  wilds 
and  provide  bread  and  salt  for  its  inmates.  Yet  beings  of  this 
-grade — as  necessary  to  an  aristocracy  as  dukes  and  earls — fare 
sumptuously  every  day ;  are  full  of  secondhand  haughtiness  ;  practise 
tn*e  worst  vices  of  their  employers,  and  look  down  with  contempt 
upon  the  honest  tradesman  who  works  for  his  living. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  they  are  of  a  different  class  from  the 
men  who  ornament  London  streets  in  ordinary  liveries,  for  they  are 
.one  and  the  same ;  but  only  that,  as  showing  up  the  thing  in 
its  true  character  by  exhibiting  it  carried  out  to  extremes,  they 
suggest  deeper  and  more  unpleasing  thoughts.  English  livery- 
servants  in  their  everyday  costume,  unlike  their  continental  brethren, 
are  rather  gentlemanly  as  well  as  picturesque-looking  men.  I  do 
not  mean  exactly  gentlemanly  like  the  gentleman  of  to-day  in 
society ;  but  with  an  old-fashioned  tinge,  like  the  genteel  men  in 
*  genteel  comedy.'  There  is  an  air  of  antiquity  about  them,  so  that 
you  cannot  help,  even  in  the  common  street,  feeling  as  if  they 
belonged  to  a  past  age,  and  were  only  walking  about  in  a  sort  of 
ghostly  dream  on  the  pave  of  to-day.  They  are  tall  and  well 
made,  and  somewhat  pale  and  delicate  in  complexion,  owing  to  late 
hours  and  unwholesome  habits  ;  their  manners  are  languid  and 
indifferent, — a  trick  caught  from  their  employ ers,  who  depend  on  it 
for  much  stylish  effect.  Mrs.  Browning  hits  off  the  studied  outside 
of  the  masters  well,  in  her  poem  of  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship  : ' 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND*  ABROAD.  159 


u  Very  finely  courteous, — far  too  proud  to  doubt  his  domination 
Of  the  common  people,  he  atones  for  grandeur  by  a  bow. 

High,  straight  forehead  ;  nose  of  eagle  ;  cold  blue  eyes,  of  less  expression 
Than  resistance  ;  coldly  casting  off  the  looks  of  other  men 
As  steel,  arrows  ;  unelastic  lips,  which  seem  to  taste  possession, 
And  be  cautious  lest  the  common  air  should  injure  or  distain." 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  a  footman  should  reflect  that  which  most 
distinguishes  his  master  from  the  commonalty,  for  the  quality 
which  makes  him  rather  be  a  footman  than  a  blacksmith  disposes 
him  to  instinctive,  indolent  imitation.  Effeminacy  is  essentially  imi- 
tative, having  no  energies  to  expend  upon  originating.  The  master's 
proudly  quiet  manners  may  tacitly  refer  to  the  history  of  a  past  age, 
or  to  a  consciousness  of  the  wealth  that  can  buy  everything  but  his- 
tory ;  but  the  servant  is  only  a  mirror,  with  nothing  better  or  deeper 
than  a  board  to  back  it ;  giving  the  image,  but  knowing  nothing  of 
the  soul  of  what  it  reflects. 

It  would  be  a  curious  thing  to  find  out  how  large  the  mental 
horizon  of  a  regular  footman  really  is.  To  us  he  seems  less  than  the 
ninth  part  of  a  man.  He  who  "  sits  a'  day  prickin'  at  a  clout,  like  a 
lassie,"  has  &  house  of  his  own,  though  it  be  a  poor  one  ;  he  orders 
his  own  dinner,  though  potatoes  be  the  only  dish  ;  his  wife  and 
children  look  up  to  him  with  a  distinct  notion  of  the  place  he  holds 
in  creation,  as  being  husband  (house-band)  and  father,  and  holding 
a  recognized  position  in  society.  But  a. footman  has  no  separate 
entity  ;  he  is  an  appendage,  a  complement,  part  of  another  man's 
equipage,  like  a  horse  or  dog,  and  of  just  equal  importance;  a 
paltry,  gilt  frame  to  an  exquisite  picture ;  the  padding  of  a  court 
coat  on  which  are  embroidered  grand  badges  of  honor  ;  a  piece  of 
the  soft  carpet  (only  the  upper  side  cared  for)  on  which  fortunate 
men  walk  daintily  up  to  consideration  and  higher  fortune.  He  is 


160  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


the  band  of  no  nouse  ;  if  he  have  children,  they  are  not  brought  up 
in  his  sight.  He  has  no  citizenship,  for  his  interest  is  merged  in 
that  of  his  master ;  if  he  think  of  public  affairs,  it  is  like  a  dunce  ; 
if  he  talk  of  them,  it  is  like  a  parrot.  His  notion  of  a  legislator  is 
of  a  gentleman  who  goes  to  "  the  'Ouse"  every  evening  for  a  certain 
number  of  weeks,  is  asked  out  to  dinner  and  gives  dinners  in  return, 
and  in  September  runs  down  into  the  country  for  the  shooting  sea- 
son. He  is  well  versed  in  the  politics  of  the  servants'  hall ;  stands 
up  manfully  against  cold  meat,  and  is  "  above  'peaching"  on  the 
butler's  peccadilloes,  so  long  as  that  official  furnishes  ale  of  a  proper 
strength  ;  but  beyond  these  points  he  is  "  in  wandering  mazes  lost," 
— incapacitated  even  for  wishing,  with  regard  to  public  affairs. 

It  would  be  one  of  the  most  curious  shows  imaginable,  to  see  a 
thorough-bred  footman,  and  a  vivid,  untamed  backwoodsman,  face 
to  face  on  a  Western  prairie.  The  wild  man  would  look  upon  his 
liveried  brother  with  a  wonder  tinged  with  pity  and  contempt.  He 
would  probably  think  at  first  that  the  strange  object  must  be  "  some 
play-actoring  fellow,"  or  a  stray  member  of  the  caravan  whose  show- 
bills decorated  the  village  when  he  last  carried  wheat  to  market ; 
while  the  poor  travestied  Anglo-Saxon  from  'the  old  world  would 
gaze  with  timid  eye  on  the  rough-rinded  farmer,  brown  and  knotty 
as  one  of  his  own  oaks,  and  secretly  conclude  him  a  representative 
of  the  cruel  aborigines,  but  one  remove  from  the  scalpers  and  toma- 
hawkers  of  whom  he  had  dimly  heard  through  Canadian  emigrants. 
Let  these  two  far-divided  brethren  be  compelled  to  pass  the  day 
together  ; — the  one  about  his  daily  business,  the  other  as  an  inquirer 
into  the  habits  of  the  country  and  the  means  of  obtaining  a  liveli- 
hood. How  could  their  minds  approach  each  other  ?  How  bridge 
over  the  immense  chasms  that  lie  between  the  life-maxims  of  a 
Western  freeman  and  those  of  a  London  footman  ?  How  find  wo*  d* 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.    161 


significant  to  both  of  the  same  idea  ?  In  the  footman's  mind,  "  nice 
people"  are  people  that  keep  their  own  carnage,  while  the  Western 
man  applies  that  term  chiefly  to  neighbors  who  are  willing  to  lend 
everything  they  have,  and  never  ask  to  have  anything  returned. 
The  Londoner,  if  he  ever  happened  to  have  heard  the  old-fashioned 
word  "  hospitality,"  would  understand  by  it  giving  splendid  dinners, 
or  filling  one's  country-house  with  gay  company  at  Christmas ;  while 
our  prairie  friend  would  intend  no  less  than  accommodating  a  neigh- 
bor with  a  night's  lodging  though  the  only  spare  bed  were  in  your 
sitting-room,  where  father,  mother  and  children  were  already  pro- 
vided for ;  or  taking  in  for  a  few  weeks  a  forlorn  family  of  Irish  emi- 
grants, half  of  them  sick  with  the  ague,  and  none  of  them  possessed 
of  a  dollar  wherewith  to  help  themselves.  If  the  farmer  was  in  high 
spirits  and  inclined  to  boast  of  "  success,"  what  would  the  exotic 
from  Piccadilly  think  when  he  was  introduced  to  a  rough  and  bare 
log  cabin,  standing  in  the  midst  of  fields  disfigured  by  stumps,  and 
only  half  fenced ; — the  wife,  worn  with  toil,  nursing  her  baby  and 
churning  at  the  same  time ;  the  eldest  daughter  washing  the  dishes, 
and  the  little  boy  cutting  his  toes  instead  of  splitting  kindling-wood,  as 
he  had  been  attempting  to  do  ?  We  can  fancy  just  how  the  unhappy 
lackey  would  look  and  feel,  if  he  were  forced  to  begin  life  anew  in 
such  circumstances;  but  we  can  well  believe,  nevertheless,  that 
though  it  might  require  many  a  hard  rub  to  get  the  nonsense  out 
of  him,  yet  in  the  end  his  good  blood  would  triumph,  and  he  would 
learn  to  be  a  man  among  men,  and  look  back  to  his  days  of 
"  flunkeyhood"  with  a  perfect  loathing. 

It  is  only  just,  after  this  fancy  sketch,  to  imagine  our  hero  of  the  axe 
bewitched  into  the  neighborhood  of  Belgrave  Square  or  Park  Lane, 
and  required  to  fill  the  forsaken  shoes  of  the  individual  whom  we 
have  just  seen  adopted  by  the  forest.  But  the  picture  cannot  possi- 


162  '     THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


bly  be  a  true  match  to  the  other,  for  the  simple  reason  that  no 
earthly  power,  to  say  nothing  stronger,  could  ever  force  the  back- 
woodsman into  the  livery  of  which  his  English  brother  was  once 
proud.  And  how  about  the  powdered  head,  of  which  we  have  as 
yet  said  nothing  ?  Could  a  farmer  ever  consent  to  such  impiety  as 
the  use  of  wheat — wheat !  his  grand  staple — his  daily  thought  and 
nightly  dream — his  synonyme  for  plenty — the  ladder  of  his  hopes — 
we  had  almost  said  the  god  of  his  idolatry — as  an  adjunct  to  the 
larded  locks  of  a  stander  behind  other  men's  chairs  ?  We  can  fancy 
some  kitchen  friseur  attempting  to  turn  his  black  '  fell  of  hair'  pie- 
bald by  the  application  of  distinct  patches  of  white  flour,  according 
to  the  approved  standard  of  Belgravia ;  but  we  see  also  the  potent 
fists  of  the  neophyte  going  round  like  steam-paddles  in  resistance ; 
and  we  should  portend  woe  to  the  unhappy  artist  if  he  carried  the 
joke  too  far.  Next  we  stick  a  very  tall  cane  into  Jonathan's  hand, 
and  order  him  to  mount  the  foot-board1  and  hold  on  for  his  life, 
ready  nevertheless  to  jump  d^wn  and  offer  a  gentle  elbow  to  his 
mistress,  when  she  alights  to  cheapen  a  pair  of  tweezers  at  Strud- 
Avick's,  or  to  try  a  court  dress  at  Miss  Mortimer's.  Or  we  place  him 
on  a  landing,  in  the  midst  of  tropical  plants  and  very  classical 
statues,  to  call  names  for  several  hours — not  according  to  the 
thoughts  that  would  arise  in  his  heart,  but  according  to  the  Red 
Book; — 'Lady  Nims!'  'The  Right  Honorable  Henry  Algernon 
Gulliver  !'  and  so  on,  while  a  shoulder-knotted  brother  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  echoes  him  like  a  mocking-bird,  and  the  gentleman 
usher  at  the  drawing-room  door  repeats  the  story.  Would  our 
green  one  call  this  an  easy  mode  of  getting  his  living  ?  Or  would 
he  long  for  his  plough,  his  harrow,  and  his  heavy  boots ;  his  supper- 
table,  covered  with  hot  bread  and  fried  pork  ;  and  the  privilege  of 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.  163 


voting  at  elections,  and  being  himself  elected  path-master  or  con- 
stable ? 

I  must  not,  however,  hypocritically  pretend  that  I  am  alto- 
gether of  our  rustic  neighbor's  mind  and  impulses  in  this  matter. 
All  my  Americanism  does  not  prevent  me  from  perceiving  and  con- 
fessing that  livery-servants  are  a  very  fascinating  and  graceful  acces- 
sory to  grandeur.  The  grandeur  once  accepted  as  right  and  proper, 
liveries  are  quite  in  keeping,  and  livery-servants  the  most  splendid 
of  human  chattels.  Those  who  have  never  seen  this  class  of 
movables,  may  picture  to  themselves  a  number  of  well-looking  men 
in  militia  uniforms,  in  attendance  upon  ladies  and  gentlemen  and 
horses ;  elegantly  dressed,  and  sedulously  ignoring  the  existence  of 
any  other  kind  of  people  and  any  other  business  in  life.  This 
makes,  of  course,  a  display  of  magnificence  which  is  enhanced  by  a 
touch  of  mystery,  since  both  servants  and  masters  affect  to  belong 
to  a  world  entirely  unconnected  with  our  everyday  one,  (though  we 
need  not  say  they  bear  no  particular  marks  of  affinity  with  that 
which  we  are  in  the  habit  of  designating  as  a  'better'  world.) 
Liveries  are  quite  as  various,  as  gay,  and  as  ridiculous  as  the  uni- 
forms of  any  of  our  city  volunteers.  A  sky-blue  coat,  yellow  waist- 
coat, and  scarlet  breeches,  would  be  thought  no  unsuitable  conjunc- 
tion as  a  mark  of  servitude ;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  liveries  in  this 
taste  are  often  chosen  by  parties  in  whose  estimation  *  quietness'  is 
the  one  crowning  grace  of  human  costume.  There  is  refinement  of 
cruelty  in  this,  or  rather  refinement  of  haughtiness,  for  your  true 
footman-soul  believes  itself  inferior,  and  is  prompted  to  no  cutting 
comparisons.  The  feeling  of  caste  is  so  sincere  and  operative  in 
England,  .that  it  not  only  influences  the  whole  moral  life  of  the 
country,  but  extends  beyond  the  grave,  apparently  without  a  mis- 
giving on  the  part  of  master  or  servant.  How  many  a  tomb-stone 


104  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


bears  such  an  inscription  as  this  :  '  Erected  by  MARMADUKE  MIL- 
LIN  GTON,  of  B ,  in  the  county  of ,  ESQUIRE,  in  memory  of 

the  humble  virtues  of  John  Stubbs,  for  thirty  years  a  faithful  SER 
VANT  in  his  family.'  One's  mind  passes  spontaneously  from  such  an 
epitaph  to  the  appearance  of  the  great  man  and  the  little  man  side 
by  side  before  a  bar  where  no  liveries  are  recognized,  and  where  the 
very  same  virtues,  not  a  different  set,  are  exacted  from  servant  and 
master.  But  it  will  not  do  for  us  to  follow  the  subject  into  its  most 
serious  recesses. 

English  haughtiness  differs  from  American  haughtiness  in  being 
sincere,  and  this  brings  us  back  to  the  thought  with  which  we  be- 
gan— the  different  effect,  picturesque  as  well  as  moral, — between 
English  and  American  liveries.  The  sincerity  of  haughtiness  is  im- 
pious, the  imitation  or  affectation  of  it  more  simply  ridiculous,  so 
that  we  should  gain  nothing  by  being  honest, in  this  matter.  But 
is  it  not  mortifying  that  Americans  can  weakly  sell  their  birthright 
for  a  price  too  contemptible  for  valuation  ?  We  look  down  upon 
people  who,  hoping  to  seem  what  they  are  not,  condescend  to  wear. 
false  jewelry  and  other  mockeries  of  the  rich ;  but  what  paste  dia- 
mond or  glass  ruby  is  meaner  than  pretences  at  livery  in  the  estab- 
lishments of  people  of  yesterday?  The  only  grandeur  at  which 
American  society  can  aim  with  honor,  is  that  of  a  bold  and  true 
simplicity  of  manners ;  courage  which  dares  to  live  out  its  natural 
an"d  staple  ideas ;  independence  founded  on  conscious  power  and 
worth,  which  can  afford  to  be  original  in  small  things  as  in  great 
ones.  The  moment  we  forget  this,  and  seek  to  mimic,  at  an 
immeasurable  distance,  the  feudal  tricks  of  decaying  aristocracy,  we 
renounce  our  real,  undeniable  claims,  and  get  absolutely  nothing  in 
return.  We  condescend  to  imitation  where  equality  is  impossible, 
and  confess  a  longing  which  Providence  has,  at  our  own  desire,  put 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.  165 


it  out  of  our  power  to  gratify.     From  so  humiliating  a  position  may 
ail  true  descendants  of  our  patriot  sires  be  preserved ! 

There  is  but  one  way  iu  which  liveries  can  be  made  true  badges  of 
American  nobility  :  this  is  by  making  them  expressive  of  the  origin  of 
the  families  they  are  intended  to  dignify.  The  glory  of  our  society  is, 
that  the  highest  spring  from  the  humblest — and  it  should,  therefore, 
be  the  aim  of  an  enlightened  pride  to  express  this  great  fact — never 
generally  operative  in  any  other  country  known  to  history — in 
whatever  public  manifestations  of  present  prosperity  we  see  fit  to 
adopt.  If  there  is  anything  of  which  we  may  be  excusably  vain- 
glorious, it  is  that  the  son  of  the  humblest  mechanic  may  and  does 
acquire,  by  worth  and  talent,  not  only  wealth,  but  position  and  influ- 
ence :  while  mere  riches,  though  they  command  a  certain  considera- 
tion from  the  esprit  de  corps  of  the  rich,  and  some  servility  from 
the  meanness  of  the  needy,  do  absolutely  nothing  towards  securing 
public  respect  or  esteem.  Let  us  then,  if  we  long  for  aristocratic 
distinctions,  boldly  seize  those  which  belong  to  us.  If  few  of  us 
can  trace  back  to  gentlemen  who,  when  they  coveted  a  neighbor's 
property,  stabbed  him  and  took  it,  we  can  claim  a  far  more  honor- 
able descent  from  honest  farmers  and  carpenters,  tailors  and  hatters. 
Surely  he  who  tills  the  ground  in  the  fear  of  God  is  a  better  man 
than  he  who  soaks  it  with  blood  for  his  own  selfish  ends — he  who 
builds  his  house  honestly,  than  he  who  wrenches  it  from  another 
by  the  strong  hand.  We  may  say  to  the  feudal  system  and  all  that 
belongs  to  it :  *  Oh,  thou  enemy  !  destructions  are  come  to  a  perpe- 
tual end.'  The  spirit  of  to-day  is  constructive ;  and,  if  we  use  the 
ruins  of  the  past,  it  must  be  to  build  a  new  plain.  Why  not,  then, 
devise  badges  of  our  true  honor  ?  American  liveries  would  so  Le 
grand,  indeed.  Alas,  that  those  who  adopt  something  so  called 
should  so  often  be  found  ashamed  of  their  honest  grandfathers  1 


1C6  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


The  grandfathers  doubtless  return  the  compliment  if  they  take  cog- 
nizance of  such  matters. 

I  have  seen  as  yet  no  attempt  in  our  country  to  establish  dis- 
tinguishing marks  of  female  servitude ;  but  there  seems  to  be  no 
good  reason  why  we  should  not  humbly  imitate  England  in  this,  as 
well  as  in  putting  collars  and  handcuffs  on  the  men  who  drive  our 
carriages  or  stand  behind  them.  A  woman-servant  in  England  is 
considered  insolent  if  she  appear  without  a  c&p ;  and,  in  addition 
to  this,  her  employers  claim  the  right  to  enforce  sumptuary  regula- 
tions as  to  her  general  costume.  It  must  indicate  her  station  unmis- 
takeably ;  and  the  slightest  direct  attempt  at  imitating  those  above 
her  would  be  deemed  insubordinate  and  ominous  of  evil.  A  silk 
gown  would  be  '  flat  burglary'  in  any  servant  below  the  rank  of 
housekeeper.  I  ought  to  except  the  governess;  who,  though 
considered  merely  as  an  upper  though  peculiarly  vexatious  and  try- 
ing servant,  in  most  English  families,  is  not  restricted  in  the  choice 
of  her  costume,  except  by  the  smallness  of  her  salary.  Shall  we 
carry  our  aping  throughout  consistently  ?  Shall  we  insist  on  caps, 
frown  on  silk  dresses,  and  treat  the  instructors  of  our  children  as 
inferiors — thus  doing  our  best  to  make  them  such  ? 

So  small  a  proportion  of  those  who  get  their  bread  by  domestic  ser- 
vice in  this  country  are  Americans,  that  we  need  hardly  consider 
how  outward  badges  of  servitude  would  sit  upon  the  native 
American,  or  how  they  might  in  time  affect  his  character.  The 
very  name  of  servant  is  a  yoke  too  heavy  for  his  pride.  He  is  will- 
ing to  perform  a  thousand  menial  offices  under  any  other  name  ; 
call  him  your  friend,  and  he  will  act  as  your  slave  ;  call  him  your 
servant,  and  he  will  soon  show  you  that  he  is  his  own  master.  He 
has  not  the  least  objection  to  the  things  to  be  done,  but  only  to  the 
position  he  must  occupy  in  doing  them  ;  so  that  while  no  money 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.    167 


could  hire  hira  to  put  on  a  gay  dress  of  your  choosing,  and  stand 
idle  in  your  entry,  he  will  build  stone  fence  for  you,  or  risk  his  life 
on  your  roof,  with  no  thought  that  he  lowers  himself  by  performing 
labor  for  your  benefit.  Work  is  his  glory,  servitude  his  detestation  ; 
there  it  not  the  least  danger  that  he  will  ever,  even  for  the  sake  of 
the  *  almighty  dollar,'  become  a  livery  servant ;  though  he  may  so 
far  forget  himself  as  to  keep  one.  His  transgression  of  the  demo- 
cratic (or  gospel)  principle  will  never  take  that  form.  Our  protest 
against  American  liveries  regards  employers  only. 

In  view  of  this  national  feeling  against  domestic  servitude — for 
the  national  objection  is  awakened  far  short  of  liveries — some  peo- 
ple are  a  good  deal  concerned  as  to  what  we  shall  do  for  servants 
after  the  overflow  of  nations  still  subject  to  feudal  ideas  shall  have 
ceased,  and  those  who  are  now  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water  in  tolerable  contentment,  shall  have  become  thoroughly 
Americanized  in  feeling,  and  at  the  same  time  possessed  of  comfort- 
able American  homes  of  their  own.  This  would  be  a  very  sad 
state  of  things  indeed !  That  there  should  be  no  class  of  people 
poor  enough  to  consent  to  live  in  our  kitchens,  and  work  for  us 
instead  of  for  themselves,  would  be  '  most  tolerable  and  not  to  be 
borne !'  It  cannot  be  that  Providence  means  to  deal  so  hardly 
with  us,  as  to  diffuse  the  advantages  we  prize  so  highly  over  the 
entire  body  of  our  citizens.  Lord  Lyttleton's  Flavia  says : — 

'  Where  none  admire,  'tis  useless  to  excel ! 
Where  none  are  beaux,  'tis  vain  to  be  a  belle  V 

So  may  we  exclaim — 

1  Without  the  poor,  what  joys  could  wealth  afford  1 
Without  a  servant,  who  would  be  a  lord !' 


108  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


The  sense  of  contrast  gives  the  zest  to  our  advantages.  Nobody 
ever  makes  a  show  in  a  desert ;  where  admirers  are  lacking  we  con- 
tent ourselves  with  substantiate.  A  truly  republican  plainness  of 
living  would  probably  be  the  deplorable  result  of  this  hardly  sup- 
posable  state  of  things.  But,  without  fearing  anything  so  remote, 
would  it  not  be  prudent  to  provide,  in  some  measure,  against  the 
possible  evils  of  universal  prosperity  ?  Perhaps  if  we  could  make 
up  our  minds  to  treat  our  servants  as  fellow  citizens  now,  the  time 
when  they  would  be  disposed  to  shake  off  our  service  might  be 
deferred.  If  we  could  refrain  from  enforcing  caste  in  our  treatment 
of  our  domestics  ;  if  we  could  engage  the  services  of  a  cook  as  we 
do  those  of  a  shoemaker  or  a  mason,  i.  e.  without  assumption  on 
one  side,  or  a  hollow  servility  on  the  other,  cooking  might  become 
a  recognized  trade,  and  our  tables  be  well  supplied,  even  after  star- 
vation no  longer  threatened  a  concocter  of  plum-puddings  who 
should  insist  upon  being  '  as  good  as  anybody  !'  Would  it  be  dan- 
gerous to  recognize  the  soul  of  a  chambermaid  ?  Would  it  not 
rather  be  apt  to  make  her  a  better  one,  and  longer  content  with  the 
broom  and  duster,  if  we  consulted  her  feelings,  expressed  an  interest 
in  her  welfare,  and  saved  her  pride  as  much  as  possible  ?  At  pre- 
sent, it  seems  to  be  supposed  that  in  the  agreement  as  to  wages,  a 
certain  amount  of  contumely  is  bargained  for — not  loud,  indeed,  but 
deep — not  in  words  so  much  as  in  thoughts,  and  in  the  actions  that 
flow  unconsciously  from  thoughts.  While  this  is  the  case,  we  can- 
not have  American  servants,  and  we  ought  not  to  have  them.  Our 
countrymen  and  countrywomen  can  do  better  ;  and  so  they  forsake  a 
business  which  ought  to  be  as  comfortable  and  lucrative  as  any 
other  which  demands  the  same  grade  of  ability,  and  leave  us  to  be 
half-served  by  people  whose  lack  of  both  principle  and  capacity  is 
too  often  the  very  reason  why  they  are  willing  to  be  servants.  The 


STREETS  AND  SERVANTS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD.    169 


consequence  is,  unspeakable  wear  and  tear  of  temper,  and  all  sorts 
of  loss  and  mismanagement  in  our  kitchens ;  corrupting  examples 
for  our  children,  and  temptation  to  inhuman  prejudice  in  ourselves. 
If  we  do  not  learn  to  consider  our  servants  as  human  beings,  they 
will  certainly  teach  us  that  they  are  so ;  and  enforced  claims  are  as 
mortifying  as  voluntary  concessions  are  graceful.  The  English  treat 
their  servants  far  better,  with  regard  to  the  national  ideas,  than  we 
do  ours,  considering  our  profession  of  democratic  principle.  We 
shall  be  forced,  sooner  or  later,  to  harmonize  more  nearly  our  politi- 
cal theoiy  and  our  social  practice  ;  and  it  will  undoubtedly  be  dis- 
covered, in  time,  that,  the  only  key  to  this  difficulty,  as  to  others 
growing  out  of  our  noble  theory  of  life,  is  to  be  found  in  the  gospel 
of  Christ 

8 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE. 

IT  has  been  justly  objected,  with  regard  to  the  public  idea  of  the 
means  of  literary  culture  in  our  country,  that  we  are  too  fond  of 
building  our  colleges  of  brick  and  stone,  instead  of  laying  their  more 
solid  foundations  in  professors  and  students.  We  certainly  do 
practically  give  our  assent  to  the  vulgar  notion  that  showy  buildings 
are  of  the  first  importance  in  our  seminaries  of  learning,  able 
teachers  only  of  the  second.  Funds  that  would  bring  talent  from 
another  hemisphere,  or  call  it  into  action  within  our  own  borders,  are 
often  buried  in  monstrous  fabrics  which  wait  useless  for  years  until 
new  means  can  be  raised  for  filling  them  with  the  teachers  and 
pupils  who  are  their  ultimate  object ;  and  State  pride  is  strangely 
gratified  by  gazing  at  these  memorials  of  one  of  the  many  blunders 
of  our  materialism. 

But  there  is  a  class  of  educational  edifices  to  which  no  such 
objection  can  be  made.  The  log  schoolhouse  in  the  deep  woods  is 
a  far  nobler  proof  of  intellectual  aspiration  than  any  huge  empty 
college  building  of  them  all.  Its  grotesque  outline  has,  for  the  eye 
of  the  thoughtful  patriot,  a  grace  that  mere  columns  and  arches  can 
never  give — the  grace  of  earnestness,  of  a  purpose  truly  lofty  in  its 
seeming  humility.  A  log  schoolhouse  is  the  veritable  temple  of 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE  171 


learning  and  religion,  without  the  remotest  idea  of  paltry  orna- 
ment ;  devoted,  in  naked  simplicity,  to  an  idea  which  is  its 
consecration  and  its  beauty.  *  Do  the  people  need  place  to  pray, 
and  calls  to  hear  His  word  ?'  says  Ruskin,  in  that  delightful  book 
of  his,*  'then  it  is  no  time  for  smoothing  pillars  or  carving 
pulpits  ;  let  us  first  have  enough  of  walls  and  roofs' — and  no  doubt 
a  truer  dignity  attends  the  roughest  erection  that  has  a  truly  high 
purpose,  than  can  be  expressed  in  the  richest  material  and  the  most 
elaborate  forms  that  mere  pride  and  vanity  can  compass  or  devise. 

And  this  is  not  mere  empty  talk  or  aesthetic  dreaming.  The 
higher  and  more  perfect  the  cultivation  of  mind  and  taste  which  the 
American  traveller  carries  with  him  into  the  western  country, 
the  more  of  true  and  touching  beauty  will  he  see  in  the  log  school- 
house  that  greets  him,  in  some  little  unexpected  clearing,  as  he  takes 
his  solitary  way  through  the  forest.  He  has  passed,  it  may  be, 
many  a  noble  farm,  with  its  fenced  fields  and  ample  barns,  its 
woodlands  resounding  with  the  axe,  and  its  chambers  vocal  with  the 
spinning-wheel ;  he  has  seen  the  owner  amid  his  laborers,  sharing  or 
directing  their  profitable  toil ;  he  has  sat  at  hospitable  boards, 
spread  with  the  luxury  of  rural  comfort  thus  provided,  and  inspected 
mills  and  factories,  promising  as  Califomian  rivers  ;  but  all  this  had 
reference  only  to  the  material  and  the  perishable.  This  was  only 
the  body  whereof  that  uncouth  log  schoolhouse  typifies  the  soul. 
The  soul  can  do  without  the  body,  but  the  body  becomes  a 
loathsome  mass  without  the  soul.  Indeed  all  this  smiling  plenty, 
this  warm  industry,  this  breathing  quiet,  is  the  fruit  of  the  log 
schoolhouse,  for  did  not  public  spirit,  general  intelligence  and  piety 
emanate  from  that  humble  source  ? 

I  will  not  say  that  as  soon  as  the  settler  has  a  roof  over  his  head 

*  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture. 


172  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


he  thinks  of  a  schoolhouse  in  which  public  meetings  may  be  held, 
for  in  truth  he  ascertains  the  probability  of  such  a  building  before 
he  selects  a  site  for  his  homestead.  As  soon  as  a  tree  is  felled, 
a  schoolhouse  is  thought  of,  and  the  whole  neighborhood  are 
at  once,  and  for  once,  of  one  accord  in  erecting  it.  It  is  a  rough 
enough  thing  when  it  is  done,  for  your  backwoodsman  looks  only 
to  the  main  point  in  everything,  and  dreams  not  of  superfluity.  He 
means  that  the  roof  shall  shed  rain,  and  the  piled  sides  keep  the 
wind  out,  and  the  floor  afford  dry  footing.  He  puts  in  windows  for 
light,  and  benches  to  sit  upon,  and  a  pulpit  or  rostrum  from  which 
a  speaker  may  be  well  heard.  Then  there  is  a  great  stove  for 
the  long  winter,  and  sometimes, — not  always,  unfortunately, — some 
shelter  for  waiting  steeds.  But  a  thought  of  symmetry,  of 
smoothing,  of  decoration — never  intrudes.  Architecture,  which 
begins  after  every  purpose  of  mere  use  in  a  building  is  provided  for, 
is  out  of  the  question  here.  Whoever  would  admire  the  log 
schoolhouse,  must  bring  the  beauty  in  his  own  mind. 

Yet  it  is  hardly  fair  to  say  so,  either.  Letting  the  inside  go,  with 
its  cave-like  roughness,  the  outer  aspect  is  not  altogether  devoid  of 
the  beauty  which  the  artist  loves.  As  to  color,  nothing  can  be 
finer,  after  a  year's  mellowing.  When  the  tender  spring  green 
clothes  the  trees  around  it,  its  rich  brown  and  gray  earthy 
tints  make  the  most  delicious  harmony,  and  its  undulating  outlines 
no  discord.  If  log  houses  have  not  yet  come  well  into  pictures,  it  is 
because  no  artistic  imagination  has  yet  been  warmed  by  them.  I 
remember  one,  in  a  picture  of  Cole's,  but  it  was  the  poorest, 
nakedest  thing  that  could  be,  more  literal  than  reality  itself.  It  was 
as  different  from  the  true — i.  e.  the  ideal  log  house — as  a  builder's 
draught  of  the  Parthenon  from  a  Raffaelesque  picture  of  it.  Such 
cold  correctness  is  death  to  typical  beauty,  for  it  does  not  recognize 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE.  173 


a  soul  in  the  inanimate.  The  painter  had  only  seen  log  houses,  he 
had  never  felt  them,  as  he  had  the  woods  and  waters  that  he 
painted  so  well.  A  Daguerreotype  representation  of  a  log  house 
would  be,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a  libel,  for 'every  tint  of  earth 
and  sky  has  peculiar  business  in  a  true  picture  of  this  characteristic 
and  interesting  object  in  western  scenery.  Kuskin  talks  of  Paul 
Veronese's  painting,  not,  like  Landseer,  a  dog  '  wrought  out  with 
exquisite  dexterity  of  handling,  and  minute  attention  to  all  the 
accidents  of  curl  and  gloss  which  can  give  appearance  of  reality, 
while  the  hue  and  power  of  the  sunshine,  &c.,  are  utterly  neglected' 
— but  the  '  essence  of  dog ;'  now  we  want  a  painter  who  can  give 
us  the  essence  of  log  house,  and  particularly  of  log  schoolhouse,  or 
we  would  as  soon  see  a  wood-pile  painted.  That  the  Swiss 
chalet  should  have  proved  more  inspiring  to  American  painters, 
shows  the  blinding  power  of  prejudice,  or  the  illusion  of  strange- 
ness ;  though,  to  be  sure,  we  have  not  Alps  to  tower  above  our 
primal  edifices. 

The  enmity  felt  by  the  backwoodsman  against  trees  too  often 
exhibits  itself  in  the  vicinity  of  the  schoolhouse,  which  ought  to  be 
shaded  in  summer,  and  shielded  in  winter  by  the  ponderous  trunks 
and  green  embracing  arms  in  the  midst  of  which  it  generally  stands. 
But,  accepting  literally  the  poet's  idea — 'the  groves  were  God's 
first  temples,'  we  cut  down  the  grove  to  make  our  temple,  yet 
inconsistently  'clear'  the  space  about  it,  partly  for  the  sake  of 
the  necessary  fuel,  partly  to  make  the  place  look  civilized !  It 
is  ?  .a  to  get  a  few  trees  left  for  the  children  to  sit  under  in 
the  summer  noon-spell.  There  is  a  savage  rudeness  in  this,  but  it  is 
in  accordance  with  the  leading  idea  of  *  subduing'  the  country,  and 
there  is  no  surer  way  of  putting  a  western  settler  in  a  passion,  than 
talking  to  him  about  sparing  a  few  trees,  for  any  purpose.  He  will 


174  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


plant  them,  perhaps,  but  he  will  never  consent  to  leave  them 
standing  where  nature  placed  them.  When  he  sits  in  the 
schoolhouse  on  Sunday,  listening  to  the  sermon  with  his  ears,  while 
his  mind,  perhaps,  strays  off  into  that  unseen  which  the  week's 
cares  and  toils  are  apt  to  banish,  or  finds  itself  still  entangled 
in  those  cares  and  toils,  he  loves  to  look  through  the  windows,  or 
the  chinks,  at  the  distant  woods.  Distant,  they  please  and  soothe 
him ;  he  feels,  if  he  does  not  hear,  their  soft  music  ;  he  sees  their 
gentle  waving,  and  appreciates  in  some  degree  the  power  of  their 
"beauty  ;  but  near,  the  association  is  unpleasant.  His  hands  yet 
ache  with  the  week's  chopping,  which  must  be  forgotten  that 
Sunday  may  be  Sunday,;  and  the  vicinity  of  huge  trunks  is 
suggestive  only  of  labor.  A  wide  bare  space  about  the  building 
has,  to  his  imagination,  the  dignity  of  a  field  of  triumph.  It  seems 
to  afford  sanction  to  the  Sabbath  reppse. 

Within,  neither  paint  nor  plaster  interferes  with  the  impression 
of  absolute  rusticity.  Desks  of  the  rudest  form  line  the  sides, 
making  a  hollow  oblong,  in  the  middle  of  which  stands  the  stove, 
surrounded  by  low,  long  benches  for  the  little  ones.  On  week-days 
these  are  filled  with  pinafored  urchins,  who  sit  most  of  the  time 
gazing  at  the  pieces  of  sky  they  can  discern  through  the  high 
windows,  or  playing  with  bits  of  stick  or  straw,  too  insignificant  to 
attract  the  keen,  stern  eye  of  the  master,  who  would  at  once  pounce 
upon  a  button  or  a  marble.  One  by  one  these  minims  are  called  up 
to  be  alphabetized,  or  spell  '  c-a-t,  pussy,'  in  the  picture-book. 
Spelling  and  arithmetic  are  decidedly  the  favorite  studies  in  most 
district  schools  ;  writing  is  troublesome,  and  reading  is  expected  to 
come  by  nature.  A  half  wild,  half  plaintive  sound  fills  the  ear,  the 
sound  of  recitation,  which  is  generally  an  irksome  business  on  both 
sides,  the  teacher  too  often  conscious  of  utter  incompetency  ano 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE.  1*75 


hating  the  task,  the  pupil  feeling  the  incorapetency  of  the  teacher, 
at  least  enough  to  be  certain  that  he  himself  is  in  hopeless  circum- 
stances as  far  as  '  book-larnin'  is  concerned.  Girls  and  boys  usually 
wear  an  equally  sad  countenance,  for  there  is  too  wide  a  chasm 
between  the  home  occupations  and  those  of  the  school-room,  to 
allow  any  familiarity  with  the  themes  of  the  latter.  "With  the 
greater  part  of  the  scholars  it  is  such  up-hill  work,  that  both 
they  and  their  parents  deserve  much  credit  for  persisting  in  efforts, 
the  result  of  which  is  distant,  at  least,  if  not  uncertain.  A  few 
happy,  bright  spirits  flash  out  in  spite  of  the  dull  influences, 
and  they  are  apt  to  absorb  the  attention  of  the  teacher,  leaving  still 
less  hope  for  the  unready. 

The  disciplinary  part  has  reference  only  to  behavior,  delinquency 
in  lessons  being  a  fault  which  the  teacher  is  usually  too  honest  or 
too  sympathetic  to  visit  with  much  severity.  High  offences 
are  biting  apples,  rattling  nuts  or  marbles,  singing,  whistling,  mak- 
ing faces,  pinching  and  scratching.  Cutting  the  desks  and  benches 
is  nominally  an  offence,  bnt  not  often  punished,  because  it  can  be 
done  without  noise ;  once  in  a  while,  however,  a  confiscated  knife 
diversifies  the  row  of  nuts  and  apples  on  the  teacher's  desk.  Modes 
of  punishment  are  ingeniously  varied.  To  be  put  on  the  boys'  side 
is  a  terrible  one  for  the  little  girls  ;  to  hold  up  a  slate,  formidable  to 
either  sex.  Standing  upon  the  bench,  or,  in  summer,  on  the  stove, 
is  equal  to  the  pillory,  especially  when,  as  is  sometimes  practised, 
the  whole  school  is  enjoined  to  point  the  finger  at  the  delinquent 
Minor  transgressions  are  occasionally  atoned  for  by  wearing  a  piece 
of  split  quill  on  the  top  of  the  ear,  or  across  the  bridge  of  the  nose, 
saddle-wise ;  or  carrying  pinned  to  the  back  or  shoulder,  a  piece  of 
paper,  on  which  a  significant  word  is  written.  The  rod  is  the  last 
resource,  unless  the  teacher  gets  a  dislike  to  some  unlucky  boy? 


176  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


whose  smallest  fault  ever  after  looms  large  on  his  jaundiced  eye. 
As  it  is  conscious  weakness  that  instinctively  has  recourse  to  force,  it 
might  naturally  be  expected  that  female  teachers  would  be  fondest 
of  the  use  of  the  rod,  and  experience  proves  the  fact.  It  serves  as  a 
substitute  for  the  mental  power  which  commands  respect.  The 
master's  brow  being  by  nature  more  terrible,  he  can  afford  to  reserve 
flagellation  for  great  occasions. 

If  the  absolute  knowledge  acquired  under  these  circumstances 
could  be  ascertained,  its  amount  would  probably  be  so  small  as  to 
seem  disproportioned  even  to  these  simple  means.  But  there  are  a 
thousand  indirect  advantages,  both  to  children  and  parents,  which 
make  themselves  evident  in  due  season,  so  that  the  difference  be- 
tween children  who  go  to  school  and  those  who  do  not,  is  as  patent 
as  if  the  teachers  were  Dr.  Arnolds  and  Hannah  Mores.  This  gen- 
eral result  is  all  that  the  farmer  expects  or  wishes ;  he  is,  on  the 
whole,  rather  prejudiced  against  books,  like  other  uneducated  people. 
We  lately  heard  an  intelligent  Russian  say,  that  children  are  sent  to 
the  public  schools  in  Russia  because  the  Emperor  wishes  it ;  the 
parents  saying  that  they  consider  what  is  learned,  beyond  counting 
and  signing  one's  name,  rather  a  disadvantage  than  a  good.  The 
rough,  hard-working  American  forms  the  same  estimate  ;  and  this 
is  the  less  to  be  wondered  at,  when  we  see  highly  instructed  people, 
who  may  be  supposed  to  have  full  knowledge  of  the  benefits  of  cul- 
tivation, adopting  these  unenlightened  sentiments.  It  will  hardly 
be  believed  that  men,  not  only  of  education  but  of  learning,  once 
transplanted  to  the  woods,  and  forced  into  the  hard  struggle  for  the 
ordinary  comforts  of  life  which  occupies  both  head  and  hands  there, 
are  found  to  let  their  children  grow  up  without  even  the  cultivation 
within  their  reach ;  so  that  among  the  most  boorish  of  western 
youth,  we  see  the  sons  and  daughters  of  those  who  possess  the 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE.  177 


power  of  imparting  the  best  instruction.  This  is  more  particularly 
the  case  with  transplanted  Europeans,  certainly,  but  it  is  not  inap- 
plicable to  many  of  our  own  countrymen  from  the  Eastern  States. 

Sunday — benign  provision  for  the  sanity,  bodily  and  mental,  of 
man,  and  the  comfort  of  the  kindly  beasts — wears  a  marked  aspect 
here  where  the  labor  of  the  week  is  labor,  and  where  the  difference 
in  dress,  occupation,  thoughts,  between  the  Sabbath  and  the  work- 
ing days,  is  as  striking  as  that  between  the  fairy  as  princess,  and 
the  fairy  as  cat.  In  town,  we  may  have  been  harassed  enough ; 
anxious  in  business,  weary  with  toilsome  pleasure,  exhausted  with 
envious  competition,  faint  with  disappointed  ambition ;  perhaps  spent 
with  unselfish  efforts  to  do  good,  or  prostrate  through  the  grief  of 
ill-success.  But  we  know  comparatively  little  of  muscular  toil,  and 
its  peculiar  consequences  upon  the  whole  man,  moral  and  physical. 
We  go  to  church  habitually ;  perhaps  with  devout  motives,  perhaps 
through  listlessness ;  because  others  go ;  because  we  do  not  know 
what  to  do  at  home  ;  we  admire  the  preacher  or  somebody  in  the 
congregation  ;  we  have  a  pew  and  may  as  well  use  it ;  it  is  a  good 
habit  for  children,  or  builds  up  our  own  character  for  steadiness. 
We  do  not  put  oh  our  best  clothes,  because  it  is  vulgbr,  and  may 
lead  to  a  suspicion  that  we  have  nowhere  else  to  exhibit  them ;  or 
from  a  better  motive — a  dislike  to  anything  which  may  attract 
attention  from  the  main  and  only  legitimate  object.  In  short  our 
way  of  spending  Sunday  is  like  other  things  that  we  do,  modified  by 
our  principles  and  circumstances.  It  has  no  general  character,  save 
that  of  outward  decency ;  it  tells  nothing  of  the  man,  except  that  he 
has  no  desire  to  be  singular. 

But  in  the  new  country  it  is  different.     There,  Sunday  is  some- 
thing in  itself,  over  and  above  the  sacredness  of  the  command  to  re- 
frain from  labor  during  its  hours.     It  is  a  day  of  rest,  emphatically  ; 
8* 


178  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


and  a  day  of  cleanliness,  and  dress,  and  social  congregation,  and 
intellectual  exercise ;  and  perhaps  of  reading  and  reflection,  such  as 
the  toilsome  week-days  do  not  encourage,  even  if  they  do  not  wholly 
prevent.  There  has  been  a  general  winding  up  of  common  affaiiv 
on  Saturday.  The  oven  has  done  double  duty  ;  and  the  churn  has 
been  used  with  vigor ;  the  remains  of  the  ironing  have  been  finished 
— for  our  Western  housewives  do  not  adhere  strictly  to  the  good  old 
custom  of  *  washing-day,'  but  wash  as  irregularly  as  they  do  almost 
everything  else ;  so  that  the  bushes  may  be  seen  weighed  down  with 
garments  every  day  in  the  week,  and  sometimes  even  on  Sunday. 
Everything  that  could  be  done  beforehand  has  been  attended  to,  and 
the  bed-hour  hastened  a  little,  to  make  the  most  of  the  coveted  repose. 
Sunday-morning  breakfast  is  a  little  dilatory,  and  the  hour  or  two 
after  it  is  one  of  bustling  preparation.  The  requisite  offices  about 
the  house  and  farm  are  dispatched  as  summarily  as  may  be  ;  and 
the  family — including  old  grandmother  and  baby  and  all — set  off 
for  church,  after  covering  up  the  fire,  and  putting  a  fork  over  the 
latch — a  precaution  which  makes  it  necessary  for  one  of  the  boys  to 
get  out  of  a  window.  This  is  merely  a  hint  to  those  who  may  call, 
that  the  falnily  is  absent ;  not  to  guard  against  thieves,  since  the 
windows  are  all  unguarded.  How  much  trouble  is  saved  by  having 
little  to  lose  !  '  Blessed  be  nothing !'  we  have  often  had  reason  to 
exclaim. 

At  church,  the  arrivals  are  various  as  to  time  ;  some  liking  to  be 
in  season — say  an  hour  before  the  service  begins  ;  others  having  too 
much  to  do  at  home  to  allow  of  the  enjoyment  of  this  precious  in- 
terval of  gossip.  In  winter,  some  good  soul  makes  the  fire,  for  it  is- 
nobody's  business  in  particular ;  and  stout  young  fellows  bring  in 
huge  armfuls  of  wood,  which  they  pile  behind  the  stove.  In  sum- 
mer, the  men  congregate  on  the  shady  side  of  the  meeting-house, 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE.  179 


and  talk  over  the  affairs  of  the  week,  the  approaching  election,  or 
the  price  of  wheat.  The  women  converse  in  whispers,  comparing 
household  experiences,  or  recounting,  in  moving  terms,  cases  of '  fits* 
or  '  inward  fever'  in  their  own  families  or  those  of  their  neighbors. 
Those  on  whom  is  to  devolve  the  burthen  of  the  music,  are  intent 
on  their  singing-books,  humming  or  softly  whistling  over  new 
or  only  half-learned  tunes,  and  comparing  one  with  another.  As 
there  is  not  even  a  guess  as  to  what  hymns  will  be  given  out, 
nothing  like  general  practice  can  be  attempted ;  but  there  is  so  little 
leisure  during  the  week,  that  the  quiet,  and  ease,  and  clean  fingers 
of  Sunday  seem  to  suggest  music,  as  naturally  as  joy  does ;  and  a 
degree  of  attention  and  interest  is  excited  which  might  be  turned  to 
excellent  account  if  good  instruction  were  at  hand  just  at  the  right 
moment. 

When  the  minister  arrives,  there  is  a  momentary  bustle,  from  re- 
suming customary  places  and  putting  away  the  music-books.  But 
soon  all  becomes  solemn.  The  idea  of  cheerfulness  and  religion 
being  compatible,  never  enters  the  head  of  one  of  those  'good  people. 
A  countenance  not  merely  serious  but  sad,  is  considered  the  only 
proper  one  for  the  contemplation  of  religious  ideas.  •  This  is  cer- 
tainly a  great  error,  and  one  which  tends  to  the  further  separation 
of  religion  from  the  affairs  of  common  life,  and  the  association  of 
piety  with  death  and  sorrow,  rather  than  with  life  and  hope,  joy  and 
peace. 

A  very  short  intermission  succeeds  the  morning  service,  and 
lunch  is  eaten  on  the  spot  by  all  members  from  a  distance.  The 
Jiorses  are  looked  to,  and  a  little  repose  or  a  stroll  in  the  grove  is 
the  preparation  for  a  new  session.  This  is  of  course  a  much  more 
drowsy  affair.  Even  the  minister  himself,  who  is  hardly  expected  to 
be  human,  will  be  heavy-eyed,  sometimes,  under  such  a  continuous 


130  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


effort ;  and  many  of  the  hearers  succumb  entirely,  giving  audible 
tokens  of  complete  forgetfulness  of  mortal  things.  Fortunately  the 
babies  generally  sleep  too,  and  the  unlucky  boys  who  let  marbles 
drop  on  the  floor  in  the  morning,  and  the  girls  who  would  whisper 
in  spite  of  frowns,  feel  the  influence  of  the  hour,  and  grow  tame  and 
good  under  it.  Still  the  afternoon  service  is  rather  uphill  work,  and 
there  is  a  general,  though  unconfessed  feeling  of  relief  when  it  is 
over,  even  among  the  best  church-goers. 

And  now  the  Sunday  is  over,  in  fact,  though  not  in  form  ;  since 
public  worship  is  the  marked  portion  of  sacred  time.  Great  stillness 
still  prevails,  however,  even  where  a  large  portion  of  the  population 
never  go  to  church.  No  one  is  so  abject  as  not  to  respect  the  day 
so  far  as  outward  appearance  goes.  There  are  those  who  think  Sun- 
day a  choice  day  for  gunning,  because  the  woods  are  undisturbed  by 
the  sound  of  the  axe ;  others  who  use  the  day  for  a  general  survey 
of  the  fields  and  fences ;  and  others  still  who  will  toss  hay  or  get  in 
wheat,  in  spite  of  what  they  deem  the  prejudices  of  their  neighbors. 
But  there  is'  no  noise — no  boasting  or  bravado.  When  these  inde- 
pendent people  say,  '  It  is  a  free  country,  and  every  man  can  do  as 
he  likes,'  they  do  not  claim  the  least  right  to  interfere  with  a  neigh- 
bor's freedom.  That  would  not  be  tolerated  in  any  one.  There  is 
a  vast  deal  of  free-thinking,  and  even  what  might  be  called  a  worse 
name,  in  mattm  of  religion,  at  the  West,  but  it  is  necessarily  quiet ; 
for  public  sentiment  is  decidedly  against  it,  though  that  public  senti- 
ment is  far  from  being  just  what  it  should  be. 

In  th$  Sabbath  exercises  the  parents  take  their  own  personal 
share  of  the  log  schoolhouse,  and  it  is  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  them 
assemble  ;  hard,  knotty,  rough,  bashful,  and  solemn,  all  clean  washed 
and  dressed,  though  carrying  the  week's  atmosphere  of  toil  about 
them,  even  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  The  sexes  are  divided,  but  sit 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE.  181 


facing  each  other,  and  the  low  benches,  on  week-days  appropriated 
to  bread-and-milk  scholars,  are  in  meeting  ocoapied  by  mothers, 
with  babies  and  younglings  who  enjoy  the  benefit  of  the  open  space 
for  manifold  evolutions  more  amusing  than  edifying.  There  is  a 
curious  mixture  of  extreme  formality  and  familiarity  on  these  occa- 
sions. Countenances  wear  an  unconscious  and  forbidding  gravity, 
as  husbands  and  wives,  parents  and  children,  beaux  and  belles,  look 
each  other  full  in  the  face  across  the  house ;  but  if  a  baby  is  trou- 
blesome, the  father  will  go  and  take  it  from  the  mother,  and  return- 
ing gravely  to  his  seat,  toss  it  and  play  with  it  awhile  and  then 
carry  it  back  again.  Children  go  into  the  passage  for  a  drink  ;  dogs 
sit  gazing  up  at  the  preacher,  and  fall  asleep  like  Christians  if  the 
day  is  warm ;  the  speaker  stops  sometimes  to  give  directions  about 
matters  that  need  attention,  or  even  points  his  sermon  directly  at 
some  individual  whose  connection  with  it  is  well  known. 

We  remember  an  occasion  when  the  preacher  began  his  discourse 
by  a  considerable  dissertation  on  controversy,  declaring  his  dislike 
to  it,  and  appealing  to  his  auditors  for  confirmation  of  his  assertion 
that  he  had  always  avoided  it.  After  spending  some  fifteen  minutes 
on  this  topic,  he  announced  that  he  had  been  requested  by  a  person 
then  present  to  preach  from  a  certain  text,  which  he  forthwith  read, 
•and  appealed  to  the  person  by  name,  as  to  whether  it  was  the  text 
he  meant.  An  affirmative  answer  having  been  given  by  a  deep 
bass  voice  in  a  far  corner,  the  speaker  read  some  twenty  verses  by 
way  of  context,  adding  that  if  any  person  present  wished  him  to 
read  more  he  would  do  so,  and  upon  request  he  proceeded  to  read 
several  verses  more.  Now  preparing  seriously  for  the  work,  by 
coughing,  etc.,  he  drew  the  attention  of  his  hearers  by  saying  that 
there  were  only  two  kinds  of  isms  that  he  contended  with — devil- 
ism  and  manism  ;  but  that  if  the  gentleman  who  had  selected  the 


182  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


text  found  Universalism  in  it,  he  was  willing,  for  truth's  sake,  to 
show  him  his  error.  He  thought  some  people  present  would  open 
their  eyes,  when  they  found  how  little  of  that  doctrine  the  passage 
in  question  really  contained.  He  did  not  mean  to  back  up  his  text 
with  other  portions  of  Scripture ;  it  could  stand  on  its  own  legs. 
He  came  '  neither  to  criticise,  ridicule,  or  blackguard  anybody,'  but 
thought  he  was  right,  and  was  willing  to  be  shown  if  he  was  wrong. 
About  half  an  hour  had  now  elapsed,  yet  the  sermon  was  not  fairly 
begun.  There  was  plenty  of  time  yet,  however,  for  he  went  on 
more  than  an  hour  longer,  warming  with  a  feeling  of  success,  and 
ever  and  anon  casting  triumphant  glances  at  the  corner  where  sat 
his  opponents,  as  he  felt  that  he  had  given  a  home  thrust  to  their 
theological  errors.  This  sermon  was  much  praised,  and  pronounced 
by  the  schoolmaster  of  the  day  the  most  powerful  discourse  he  had 
ever  heard. 

This  sketch,  however,  represents  an  individual,  not  a  claes.  Ambi- 
tion is  not  the  pulpit  vice  of  the  woods,  and  sermons  are  usually 
of  the  hortatory  character,  delivered  with  great  fervor.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  doctrinal  sermons  win  the  most  respect,  and  are  most 
talked  about ;  exhortation  is  deemed  commonplace  in  comparison — 
mere  milk  for  babes.  A  sermon  on  original  sin,  which  asserted  that 
infants  of  a  day  might  be  damned,  and  that  souls  in  blessedness 
would  be  able  to  rejoice  over  the  eternal  misery  of  those  they  loved 
best,  because  it  vindicated  Almighty  justice,  gave  great,  though  per- 
haps not  general  satisfaction.  *  Ah  !  wasn't  it  elegant !'  we  heard  a 
good  woman  say,  coming  out ;  '  I  haven't  heard  such  a  sermon 
since  I  came  from  the  East !' 

The  public  taste  turning  thus  toward  knotty  points  of  divinity, 
the  preachers,  whose  employment  depends  upon  their  acceptableness^ 
naturally  make  polemics  a  large  part  of  their  little  reading— aa 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE.  183 


uiihuppy  result,  considering  the  very  little  good  likely  to  be  accom- 
plished among  uninstructed  people  by  controversial  preaching.  The 
pulpit  is  the  most  efficient  instructor  of  the  people,  on  other  subjects 
besides  religion,  and  the  advance  in  general  intelligence  must  depend 
very  much  upon  the  competency  of  those  who  undertake  the  dis- 
pensation of  ethical  truth.  It  is  therefore  greatly  to  be  desired  that 
knowledge  should  be  added  to  zeal,  in  those  who  go  westward  in 
the  hope  of  doing  good.  Too  many  who  go  are  deficient  in  both, 
and  no  one  who  has  lived  there  will  doubt  that  the  harm  done, 
directly  and  indirectly,  by  such,  is  incalculable  ;  but  there  is  another 
class  whose  persuasions  to  religion,  though  honestly  meant,  lead 
only  to  superstition  and  outward  observance,  too  common  every- 
where, but  especially  destructive  in  their  influence  on  true  piety  in 
unenlightened  communities.  A  considerable  portion  of  the  religious 
teachers  who  officiate,  self-elected,  in  the  western  wilds,  are  behind 
those  they  teach  in  general  intelligence,  and  not  much  above  them 
in  familiarity  with  religious  topics,  though  they  may  possess  a  great 
flow  of  words,  which  pass  for  signs  of  ideas,  but  are  not  such,  as  it 
regards  either  party.  Some  sermons  are  mere  strings  of  Scriptural 
phrases  and  well-known  texts,  often  curiously  wrenched  from  their 
authorized  meaning  to  favor  the  purpose  of  the  hour.  The  idea 
on  these  occasions  seems  to  be,  that  the  people  are  to  be  touched, 
moved,  excited,  frightened,  or  persuaded  into  an  interest  in  religion, 
by  any  and  every  means  that  the  Scriptures  afford,  and  that  with  so 
good  a  purpose  it  is  lawful  to  make  them  afford  whatever  may  pro- 
mise to  be  effectual.  Griesbach  and  Rosenmiiller  would  stare  at 
some  of  the  glosses  of  our  zealous  preachers,  and  the  learned  Rabbi 
who  has  been  lecturing  among  us  would  find  his  metaphysics  out- 
done in  sutyilty,  by  certain  constructions  of  the  Old  Testament 


184  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


histories,  which  read  with  such  grave  simplicity  and  directness  to 
the  unlearned. 

With  all  deductions,  however,  an  immense  amount  of  good  is 
done  in  various  ways.  Even  when  the  preacher  is  deficient,  the 
hearers  extract  good  in  some  shape  from  his  blind  teaching ;  that  is 
to  say,  seeking  for  good,  they  find  it  whether  it  is  brought  them  or 
not.  Who  can  reckon  the  value  of  the  rest,  the  change  of  thought, 
the  neat  dress,  the  quiet,  the  holy  associations,  which  the  Sabbath 
day  brings  with  it  in  the  country  !  The  best  touchstone  of  valua- 
ble citizenship  is  found  in  the  log  schoolhouse.  He  who  feels  no 
interest  in  that,  feels  none  in  anything  that  concerns  the  welfare  of 
the  community. 

The  Sunday-school  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  all  the  occu- 
pations of  the  school  house,  but  it  would  require  the  graphic  power 
of  a  Hogarth  to  describe  it  worthily.  As  there  is  no  rod,  and  no 
authority  but  one  founded  on  sentiment,  the  erratic  genius  of  the 
West  has  full  scope.  The  youth  who  would  on  week-days  tell  his 
teacher — '  Scoldin'  don't  hurt  none — whippin'  don't  last  long — and 
kill  me  you  darsn't  /'  would  not  probably  be  very  lamblike  under 
the  instructions  of  the  Sabbath ;  and  the  very  proposition  to  teach 
for  love,  and  not  for  money,  puts  every  one  on  his  guard.  They 
cannot  exactly  see  the  trap,  but  they  are  pretty  sure  there  is 
one !  Something  very  like  bribery  is  necessary,  in  order  to  secure 
the  attendance  of  the  class  of  scholars  whom  it  is  most  desirable  to 
persuade — the  children  of  parents  who  do  not  frequent  the  school- 
house.  Some  of  these  hardly  know  the  Bible  by  name,  and  others 
have  heard  it  only  scoffed  at.  But  religious  teaching  often  exerts  a 
wonderful  power  even  over  such,  and  they  are  apt  to  be  converted 
to  a  faith  in  disinterested  benevolence  at  least.  The  labor  of  teach- 
ing them  is  quite  equal  to  that  required  for  teaching  in  Ceylon,  ac- 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE.  135 


cording  to  Dr.  Poor ;  and  the  good  missionary's  whole  description 
of  the  mission  schools  in  that  far  land,  reminded  me  very  much  of 
certain  western  experiences. 

Besides  the  uses  we  have  mentioned,  the  schoolhouse  is  the  thea- 
tre of  the  singing-school,  so  dear  to  country  beaux  and  belles ;  of 
the  spelling-school,  as  exciting  as  a  vaudeville ;  of  all  sorts  of  shows 
and  lectures,  expositions  and  orations.  Even  the  ceremonies  of  the 
Catholic  Church  are  found  possible  within  those  rude  walls,  and 
incense  has  won  its  way  to  the  sky  through  the  chinks  of  warped 
oak  shingles.  The  most  numerous  sects  are  the  Baptists  and  Me- 
thodists ;  but  there  is  hardly  one  unrepresented.  We  remember  a 
Quaker  sermon  on  a  certain  occasion,  which  produced  perhaps  as 
great  a  sensation  as  any  doctrinal  discourse  of  them  all,  though  it 
partook  very  little  of  theology. 

We  had  occasionally  met  for  public  worship,  in  a  lonely  school- 
house  on  the  border  of  the  forest,  where  two  r6ads  crossed,  and 

•  % 

where,  in  winter,  a  flooring  of  chips  showed  that  the  seekers  after 
learning  were  not  behindhand  in  consuming  the  woods  as  fast  as- 
their  great  stove  would  assist  them.  This  primitive  temple,  with  its 
notched  desks  and  gashed  benches,  was  used  in  turn  by  religionists 
of  every  shade  of  belief  and  no  belief ;  even  the  Mormons  had  ex- 
pounded their  Golden  Bible  (by  some  of  the,  neighbors  believed  to 
have  been  typified  by  the  Golden  Calf  which  led  the  people  astray 
in  old  times),  from  its  crazy  platform,  and  a  rough-looking  gentle- 
man in  a  plaid  neckcloth  had,  during  a  whole  evening,  thumped  the 
teacher's  desk  till  it  quivered  again,  in  his  endeavors  to  prove  all 
religion  a  device  for  the  better  subjection  of  the  people.  A  Sunday- 
school  had  been  maintained  here  for  some  time,  at  no  small  cost  to 
the  good  laymen  who  conducted  it ;  for  they  were  obliged,  in  winter, 
to  precede  their  scholars  by  at  least  an  hour,  and  make  the  fire  and 


186  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


arrange  the  room,  lest  some  petty  discomfort  should  prove  an  excuse 
for  absence  on  the  part  of  those  whom  they  were  most  desirous  of 
benefiting.  Here,  too,  were  singing-schools  held,  and  spelling- 
schools,  and  other  solemnities  requiring  space  and  benches ;  and  the 
log  schoolhouse,  spite  of  its  rough  aspect,  was,  as  usual,  a  building 
in  much  request  and  high  esteem. 

There  was  no  '  stated  preaching'  in  it  on  Sundays,  but  clergymen 
of  different  denominations  seemed  to  know  by  intuition  or  magnet- 
ism when  it  would  be  available,  and  their  appointments  dovetailed 
so  nicely  that  its  so-called  pulpit  was  seldom  unoccupied  at  the 
hours  of  divine  service.  Once  only,  within  the  memory  of  *  the 
oldest  inhabitant,'  did  ten  o'clock,  Sunday  morning,  find  the  people 
assembled, — the  wagons  tied  outside,  with  their  seats  turned  down 
as  a  precaution  against  falling  skies,  and  their  patient  steeds  chewing 
*  post-meat'  for  recreation — and  no  preacher  forthcoming.  A  scrt 
of  extempore,  self-constituted  deacon,  after  much  solemn  whispering 
with  the  grave-looking  farmers  who  sat  near  Kim,  gave  out  a  hymn, 
which  was  sung  with  a  sort  of  nervous  slowness,  and  much  looking 
at  the  door.  A  restless  pause  followed,  and  then  the  deacon  gave 
out  another  hymn,  in  six  verses,  with  a  repeat ;  this  occupied  a  con- 
venient portion  of  time,  and  then  came  another  fidgety  silence, 
during  which,  some  of  the  lighter  members  slipped  out,  and  several 
of  the  children  went  to  the  pail  outside  the  door  for  a  drink.  The 
deacon  then  offered  to  read  a  chapter,  and  proposed,  if  the  clergy- 
man did  not  arrive  in  that  time,  that  some  of  the  brethren  should 
'  make  a  few  remarks.'  The  chapter  was  read,  and  the  remarks 
duly  invited ;  but  this  only  made  the  silence  deeper ;  indeed,  it  was 
such  that  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

Nobody  belonging  to  the  town  seemed  to  have  anything  on  his 
mind,  and  after  a  little  pause,  there  were  evident  symptoms  of  a 


THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE. 


natural  dissolution  of  the  meeting ;  when  a  Quakeress,  who  was  on 
a  visit  in  the  neighborhood,  laid  aside  her  close  bonnet,  and  stand- 
ing up,  presented  to  the  view  of  the  assembly  a  fair  and  calm  face, 
on  which  sat  the  holy  smile  of  Christian  love  and  confidence.  All 
was  hushed,  for  such  a  look  has  an  irresistible  charm. 

*  My  friends,'  she  began,  with  a  sweet  solemn  tone,  between  en- 
treaty and  reproof,  '  since  you  are  disappointed  with  regard  to  your 
minister,  perhaps  you  will  be  willing  to  hear  a  few  words  from  one 
who,  though  personally  a  stranger,  feels  a  true  interest  in  you,^and 
who  would  fain  help  you  forward,  even  ever  so  little,  in  the  religious 
life.  Your  desire  to  have  the  gospel  preached  to  you,  shows  that 
you  are,  at  least  in  some  measure,  seeking  that  life,  and  my  mind 
has  been  drawn  towards  you  as  I  observed  the  dependence  you 
seemed  to  feel  on  the  ministrations  of  the  person  expected.  It  has 
certainly  seemed  strange  to  me  that  so  much  uneasiness  and  com- 
motion should  have  been  occasioned  by  the  failure  of  a  particular 
person  to  conduct  your  worship.  '  God  is  a  spirit,  and  they  that 
worship  Him  must  worship  Him  in  spirit/  Now  you,  every  one  of 
you,  brought  with  you  to  this  house  this  morning  a  spirit,  in  and 
by  which  alone  you  can  worship  acceptably.  You  have  here  before 
you  the  book  containing  the  revealed  word,  in  which  you  could  find 
wherewithal  to  direct  and  govern  your  thoughts  on  this  occasion  ; 
why  then  should  the  absence  of  any  mere  man  interfere  with  your 
purpose  of  worship,  and  leave  your  minds  unquiet  and  your  thoughts 
wandering  f 

Thus  the  gentle  monitor  opened  her  truly  extempore  sermon,  and, 
passing  from  one  topic  to  another  as  she  proceeded  with  her  remon- 
strance, she  touched  on  many  points  of  scripture  and  practical  reli- 
gion, until  her  audience  forgot  their  disappointment,  or  remembered 
it  only  to  rejoice  at  it.  The  prejudice  against  a  woman's  pretending 


188  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


to  teach  in  public,  though  peculiarly  strong  among  coarse  and  unlet- 
tered people,  melted  before  the  feminine  grace  and  modesty  with  which 
the  speaker  was  so  largely  endowed ;  and  when  she  finished,  and 
resumed  her  seat  and  her  bonnet,  there  were  few  present  who  would 
not  gladly  have  agreed  to  hear  her  every  Sunday.  How  they 
would  have  relished  her  silence,  or  whether  her  arguments  had  done 
anything  towards  convincing  them  that  the  heart  may  worship 
though  no  word  be  spoken,  we  can  only  conjecture ;  for  before  an- 
other Sabbath,  the  persuasive  eye  and  voice  had  departed  on  some 
mission  to  the  farther  West,  and  we  never  again  eftjoyed  her  minis- 
try of  love  in  THE  LOG  SCHOOLHOUSE. 


STANDARDS, 

WE  need  standards.  Not  such  as  are  wont  to  be  presented  by 
fine  ladies  in  balconies  to  glittering  crowds  below,  where  plumes 
wave  and  steel  flashes  in  the  sunshine,  while  the  vulgar,  dazzled 
with  the  pretty  pageant,  rend  the  air  with  their  '  most  sweet  voices.' 
Not  such  standards  as  these  do  we  lack ;  would  they  were  fewer ! 

By  the  way,  is  it  not  a  strange  thing  that  woman,  who  was  sent 
into  the  world  to  be  an  angel  of  peace  and  mercy,  should  have  lent 
herself  to  such  things  ?  that  she  should  ever  have  been  persuaded 
to  become  the  tool  of  the  ambitious  and  the  revengeful  ?  that  her 
hand  should  have  been  trained  to  endue  the  knight's  death-dealing 
sword  ;  to  buckle  on  his  heel  those  silver  cruelties  called  spurs ;  and 
to  place  in  his  steeled  grasp  the  lance  whose  best  aim  was  to  be  the 
life-blood  of  fathers,  and  brothers,  and  husbands  ?  Does  she  not  shoot 
madly  from  her  sphere  when  she  lends  the  power  of  her  presence  to 
the  public  baptism  of  a  silken  banner,  whose  inscription  is  cunningly 
devised  for  the  promotion  of  ghastly  death  ?  Oh  that  these  beautiful 
emblems  of  horror,  these  gilded  toys  significant  of  deepest  woe, — 
of  poverty,  of  widowoood,  of  despair, — were  wont  to  change  their 
delusive  seeming  for  their  true  character,  even  as  they  pass  from  the 


190  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


hand  of  the  fair  giver  to  that  of  the  tinselled  warrior !  For  crimson 
and  gold,  for  gleaming  white  and  delicate  azure,  we  should  then 
behold  the  fell  traces  of  a  '  heady  fight ; '  black  powder-stains,  huge 
rents,  showing  the  path  of  hostile  bullets  ;  and  over  all  and  through 
all,  a  plentiful  sprinkling  of  human  gore ;  perhaps  the  heart-blood 
of  the  poor  ensign  whose  duty  it  is  to  pour  out  his  life  in  defence  of 
the  costly  rag.  Methinks  one  such  disenchanting  revelation  would 
suffice  for  the  woman  of  one  generation  at  least. 

But  whither  am  I  wandering  ?  All  I  set  out  to  say  was,  that  we 
are  in  daily  want  of  standards  suited  to  the  considerate,  prodigal, 
ambitious,  economical,  and  particularly  the  moralizing  habits  of  this 
utilitarian  age  ;  standards  of  propriety,  standards  of  expense,  and  of 
many  other  things  which  are  brought  into  daily  discussion  in  our 
times.  Here,  in  our  countiy,  where  we  boast  that  none  of  us  have 
any  body  to  look  up  to,  while  we  are  every  one  looking  up  to  some- 
body, it  seems  to  be  peculiarly  difficult  to  determine  just  how  far 
each  ought  to  go  in  certain  matters ;  what  proportion  should  be 
observed  in  our  expenditures ;  and  how  much  pretension  we  are 
entitled  to,  whether  in  dress,  furniture,  or  style  of  living.  At  least 
half  the  scandal  of  our  coteries  derives  its  zest  from  the  debateable 
nature  of  these  important  points.  If  any  one  would  be  kind  and 
ingenious  enough  to  devise  a  sliding-scale  whose  register  should 
decide  these  things,  he  would  be  much  better  entitled  to  the  national 
thanks  than  ever  was  the  great  inventor  of  that  corn-screw  to  the 
gratitude  of  tne  grain-growers  of  England.  We  need  some  tallis- 
man  to  put  a  cheek  upon  these  ceaseless  inquisitions,  and  imputa- 
tions, and  calculations,  all  undertaken  for  the  sole  benefit  of  our 
neighbors.  If  we  must,  as  a  people,  be  idolaters  of  the  physical  and 
the  outward,  let  us  have  our  grounds  of  worship  and  our  grades  of 
ministration  settled  definitely,  that  the  land  may  have  rest. 


STANDARDS.  191 


What  an  edifying  conversation  ensues  when  Mrs.  Angle  sets  the 
ball  rolling  by  a  remark  touching  the  table-habits  of  the  Dash- 
woods  ! 

4  Can  you  believe  that  people  who  live  in  so  splendid  a  house, 
with  satin-damask  hangings  and  all  manner  of  show,  dine  off  a 
cotton  table-cloth,  and  without  even  napkins  ?' 

'  Believe  it !  certainly,'  says  a  hum-drum  looking  person  in  the 
corner,  whose  appearance  would  be  entirely  insignificant  were  it  not 
for  a  pair  of  peering  eyes,  which  show  that  she  is  to  be  dreaded  as 
a  visiter  at  least ;  '  believe  it !  I  can  believe  any  thing,  for  I  caught 
them  sitting  down  to  a  shoulder  of  mutton,  with  the  water  it  had 
been  boiled  in  served  up  for  soup  ; ' 

'How  came  you  to  call  at  dinner-time?'  asks  a  simple-minded 
country  lady. 

'  O  !  I  went  late  on  purpose,  and  made  the  servant  believe  I  was 
a  person  on  business,  just  to  see  how  they  did  live,  for  I  knew  that 
people  who  cut  the  figure  they  do  must  pinch  somewhere.' 

'  As  to  that,'  remarks  a  prim-lipped  damsel,  with  very  bony  hands 
'/  saw  Mrs.  Dashwood  put  a  sixpence  into  the  plate  last  Sunday. 
I  declare  I  thought  her  fat  fingers  blushed  as  they  did  it  ?  They 
looked  red  enough,  I  'm  sure  !' 

Poor  Mrs.  Dashwood !  Yet  she  has  her  revenge,  for  she  is  at 
this  very  moment  telling  one  of  her  neighbors,  whose  ideas  of  style 
correspond  more  nearly  with  her  own,  what  she  thinks  of  the  airs  of 
Mrs.  Angle  '  and  that  set,'  who,  living  in  small  houses  with  '  really 
common  furniture,'  yet  affect  not  only  napkins  but  silver  forks  and 
finger-glasses ! 

Mrs.  Pensile  is  a  serious  lady,  a  pattern-woman  ;  but  she  means 
to  maintain  her  reputation  and  satisfy  her  conscience  by  just  as  little 
self-denial  as  will  answer  the  purpose.  She  will  be  careful  not  to 


102  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


give  up  any  thing  that  is  not  absolutely  inconsistent  with  her  pro- 
fession of  sobriety.  She  sometimes  indulges  in  expenses  which  she 
feels  to  be  scarcely  in  keeping  with  her  theories,  but  she  is  always 
able  to  come  off  triumphant  by  proving  to  you  that  one  of  the 
neighbors,  who  makes  a  still  higher  profession,  goes  farther  that  she 
ever  does. 

*Jt  does  really  hurt  my  feelings,'  says  Mrs.  Pensile,  *  to  see  Miss 
Evergreen,  who  is  a  member  of  our  church,  wear  a  shawl  that  cost 
her,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  three  hundred  dollars.' 

*  But  Miss  Evergreen  is  a  woman  of  fortune,  and  has  nobody  to 
provide  for.' 

*  True  ;  but  it  does  seem  to  me  that  there  is  some  limit  to  the 
expenses  in  which  serious  people  may  lawfully  indulge  !  My  shawl 
now  cost  but  ninety  dollars,  and  I  am  sure  it  is  as  good  as  anybody 
ought  to  want  ?' 

The  visiter  who  has  assented  to  this  proposition  goes  off  to  her 
own  coterie,  and  there  gives  vent  to  the  '  exercise  '  of  her  mind  by 
telling  Mi*s  Pensile's  idea  of  a  standard  for  shawls. 

'To  think  that  woman  actually  takes  credit  to  herself  because 
she  wears  a  shawl  that  cost  only  ninety  dollars  !  I  rather  think  if 
she  would  look  round  her  own  church,  she  would  see  many  people 
whose  wardrobe  nee^ds  very  much  the  aid  of  a  part  of  the  money  ! 
For  my  part,  my  best  shawl  cost  scarcely  half  as  much,  and  even 
that  went  against  my  conscience  !  ' 

Upon  this  a  certain  lady  whispers  to  her  companion  on  the  sofa, 
at  the  same  time  looking  very  hard  at  the  last  speaker  : 

'  That  is  a  good  deal  more  than  you  ought  to  afford,  Madam,  on 
my  certain  knowledge  !  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Burn,  that  that  lady's 
husband  is  my  husband's  partner,  and  I  never  think  of  giving  over 
twenty  dollars  for  a  shawl.  There's  my  brocht  cost  but  eighteen.' 


STANDARDS.  193 


*  And  after  all,'  says  an  ancient  dame  who  overhears  her,  *  my 
good  Paisley  tartan,  which  cost  but  five,  is  warmer  than  either,  and 
looks  as  well  as  anybody  need  wish,  if  it  were  not  for  pride.' 

Now  if  it  were  supposable  that  one  of  our  thrifty,  tidy  western 
housewives  could  be  present  at  so  refined  a  colloquy,  she  might  cap 
the  climax  by  adding : 

'  If  you  would  all  do  as  I  do,  make  comfortable  wadded  mantillas 
out  of  your  old  dresses,  for  yourselves  and  your  children,  you  would 
have  more  money  to  pay  your  husband's  debts  with,  and  something 
to  give  to  the  poor  beside.  Mine  is  made  of  the  skirt  of  my 
wed  ling-gown,  and  cost  me  nothing  but  the  batting  and  the 
quilting ! ' 

Who  shall  draw  the  line  for  these  good  ladies  ? 

Miss  Long,  during  a  stroll  up  Broadway,  late  on  a  pleasant 
afternoon,  happens  to  see  Miss  Hauton  trip  daintily  down  her 
father's  marble  steps  to  the  carriage  which  is  to  convey  her  to 
a  dinner-party.  It  is  but  a  glimpse,  yet  Miss  Long  had  time  to  take 
an  inventory  of  Miss  Hauton's  decorations.  The  hair  was  elegantly 
dressed ;  the  robe,  of  the  latest  Parisian  make  and  the  most  exquisite 
delicacy  of  color,  and  the  satin  shoe  and  the  splendid  mouchoir 
completed  a  costume  which  would  have  been  pronounced  faultless 
by  the  best  judges,  and  which  Miss  Long  secretly  decides  to  be 
1  perfectly  angelic  ! '  From  this  moment  she  never  rests  until 
she  has  persuaded  her  indulgent  papa  tp  allow  her  an  outfit  as 
nearly  like  Miss  Hauton's  as  possible.  But  Miss  Long  is  not  invited 
to  dinner-parties,  nor  does  her  papa  keep  a  carriage;  what  then 
shall  she  do  with  her  beautiful  new  dress  and  its  accompaniments  ? 
She  wears  them  to  walk  the  streets  and  make  morning  visits.  Mrs. 
Sharp,  after  bowing  out  Miss  Long,  turns  to  her  daughter  with  a 
compassionate  smile,  and  the  remark  : 
9 


194  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


'  What  a  pity  that  poor  girl  will  make  herself  ridiculous  by 
dressing  so  conspicuously  in  the  streets  ! ' 

Miss  Long  has  no  conception  of  anything  like  propriety  in  dress. 
"With  her,  dress  is  dress,  be  time  and  place  what  they  may.  She 
has  been  accustomed  to  think  that  a  gingham  wrapper,  or  perhaps 
something  not  so  neat,  is  quite  '  good  enough'  for  a  morning  at 
home ;  but  there  her  distinctive  perceptions  of  proprieties  in  costume 
are  at  an  end.  The  idea  of  a  'beauty  of  fitness'  in  dress  or 
anything  else,  has  never  been  presented  to  her  mind. 

A  lady  of  clear  understanding  but  no  particular  accuracy  of 
expression  happens  to  observe  to  her  friend  :  '  Your  daughter  is  just 
now  at  the  right  age  to  begin  music.' 

* Don't  you  think  she 's  rather  young  ? ' 

'  No  ;  it  is  the  best  time  for  whatever  depends  much  on  habit  or 
requires  manual  dexterity.  Beside,  her  time  is  worth  nothing  for 
any  other  pursuit.' 

The  friend  looks  up  from  her  worsted-work  in  horror.  'Time 
worth  nothing !  You  surprise  me !  I  consider  time  a  sacred 
trust.' 

'  Oh,  certainly ;  but  comparatively,  I  mean ;  there  is  very  little 
use  in  urging  books  at  so  early  an  age.' 

'  Time  worth  nothing ! '  pursues  the  moralizing  dame,  who  has 
got  hold  of  a  fruitful  topic ;  '  that  is  the  last  sentiment  I  should  have 
expected  from  a  woman  of  your  principles !  I  look  upon  even  a 
little  girl's  time  as  very  valuable.  I  am  teaching  Viola  to  sew.  I 
consider  sewing  much  more  necessary  than  music.  A  woman  who 
does  not  know  the  use  of  her  needle  is  good  for  nothing.  You  've 
no  idea  how  beautifully  Viola  can  work  already !  Here  is  a  pair  of 
manchettes  she  is  finishing  for  me  ;  look  at  the  lace-work:  By  the 
way,  have  you  seen  my  new  collar  ?  Mrs.  Taft  says  she  could  not 


STANDARDS.  195 


distinguish  it  from  Paris  embroidery.  Indeed,  I  stole  the' pattern 
from  a  French  one.  And  there  are  my  ottomans,  just  come  home ; 
beautifully  mounted,  are  they  not?  The  unconscionable  wretch 
charged  me  forty  dollars  for  that  mounting.  But  they  ought  to  be 
handsomely  set,  when  1  have  bestowed  so  much  labor  upon  them. 
I  worked  at  them  five  weeks,  and  we  had  company  part  of  the  time 
too,  so  that  I  could  not  work  all  the  time.'  The  friend  takes  the 
opportunity  of  a  pause,  to  observe  politely  :  '  I  cannot  imagine  how 
you  find  time  for  so  much  ! ' 

Oh  !  it  is  by  making  use  of  every  moment.  I  never  allow 
myself  to  be  idle.  I  keep  this^screen-frame  at  hand,  so  that  while 
I  am  receiving  calls  I  may  be  busy.'  And,  full  of  self-approval,  the 
Jady  continues  her  devotion  to  the  embroidered  screen,  wondering 

how  so  sensible  a  woman  as  Mrs. could  say  that  even  a  child's 

time  is  worth  nothing. 

Mr.  Howard,  a  city  merchant,  finding  business  unprosperous, 
through  the  changefulness  of  the  times  or  the  failure  of  some 
correspondent,  resolves  to  retire  while  it  is  yet  time  ;  and  wishing  to 
alter  his  style  of  living,  thinks  he  can  do  it  with  smaller  sacrifice  of 
feeling  if  he  change  his  place  of  residence  and  his  plan  of  life.  He 
has  always  had,  like  many  of  his  city  brethren,  a  green  dream 
floating  far  away  in  the  back-ground  of  his  imagination ;  an  incipient 
calenture,  under  the  influence  of  which  fields  and  forests  have 
looked  particularly  enticing  to  his  mind's  eye.  Now  is  the  time  to 
try  this  new  spring  of  happiness.  So  he  follows  his  friend  Allbright 
into  .the  country,  and  buys  a  farm,  and  hires  a  farmer  to  manage  it 
for  him,  as  Allbright  has  done.  But  Allbright  is  of  a  quiet  turn, 
and  fonder  of  reading  than  anything  else  ;  and  Howard  is  a  person 
of  overflowing  activity,  who  cares  nothing  for  books,  and  whatever 
he  may  suppose,  really  loves  only  society  and  bustle. 


196  THE    EVENING  BOOK. 


During  the  first  month  after  the  effort  and  turmoil  of  becoming 
settled  in  a  new  residence  are  over,  Howard  yawns  and  stretches 
until  dislocation  seems  inevitable.  But  harvest  is  approaching,  and 
then  there  will  be  some  stir,  and  Howard  suspends  his  judgment  of 
rural  life  until  then.  Harvest  begins,  and  all  is  animation ;  and 
Howard  walks  about  the  fields,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  until 
he  begins  to  long  to  be  busy  too.  After  two  or  three  days,  looking 
on  has  lost  its  charm,  and  he  resolves  to  try  his  hand  at  this  new 
form  of  energy.  He  works  furiously  for  a  day  or  two,  quite  flattered 
that  the  men  declare  he  does  his  share  and  more.  And  then  one 
morning  he  wakes  up  with  a  fever.  After  a  tolerable  seasoning,  he 
quietly  moves  his  forces  townward  again,  being  thoroughly  convinced 
that  ruralizing  is  not  his  forte.  He  had  judged  himself  by  his 
friend,  when  in  fact  no  two  can  be  more  different.  He  resolves  to 
face  manfully  his  altered  style  of  living,  and  with  conscious  honesty 
to  sustain  his  self-respect,  he  finds  the  world's  dread  eye  not  half  so 
terrible  as  he  thought  it. 

The  Eeverend  Doctor  Deal,  pastor  of  a  city  congregation,  with  a 
large  salary  and  only  two  sons,  not  only  sends  his  boys  to  the  most 
expensive  colleges,  but  allows  them  private  instruction  from  the 
best  masters,  to  fit  them  for  the  arena.  The  good  Doctor  has  been 
heard  to  remark,  with  a  disapprobation  not  unmixed  with  contempt, 
upon  the  absurdity  of  his  friend  Mr.  Berrington's  attempting,  with 
his  family,  to  send  his  sons  to  college. 

Now  Mr.  Berrington,  a  member  of  Dr.  Deal's  church,  and  no 
illiberal  contributor  to  the  large  salary  above-mentioned,  is  a  sala- 
ried man  too,  but  his  income  is  not  so  good  as  the  Doctor's,  and  he 
has,  moreover,  six  sons  instead  of  two.  Yet  he  feels  that  his  posi- 
tion in  society,  his  connections,  his  own  education  and  habits,  all 
make  it  very  desirable  that  his  sons  should  be  liberally  educated. 


STANDARDS.  197 


Charles,  the  eldest,  has  mastered  the  school-course,  and  is  very 
anxious  to  go  to  college  with  his  young  companions.  The  father, 
after  much  deliberation  and  some  misgiving,  concludes  that  the 
attempt  must  be  made.  It  is  only  choosing  a  college  where  expen- 
ses are  moderate,  retrenching  a  little  at  home,  and  enjoining  strict 
economy  upon  Charles;  and  he  will  be  nearly  through  college 
before  John's  turn  comes.  Charles  leaves  home  with  heroic  resolu- 
tions of  hard  study ;  then  goes  to  college,  and  does  as  most  other 
boys  do.  Retrenchments  at  home  are  trying,  and  Mr.  Berrington 
has  almost  resolved  against  another  so  inconvenient  attempt.  But 
John,  who  is  of  a  more  quiet  turn  than  his  brother,  makes  so  many 
fair  promises,  and  seems  so  likely  to  keep  them,  and  Charles,  under 
pain  of  his  father's  displeasure,  takes  hold  of  his  studies  so  manfully 
at  last — and  comes  off  with  the  honors — that  John  is,  after  all, 
allowed  to  take  his  brother's  place  when  Charles  is  put  into  a  law- 
office  to  learn  his  profession.  And  this  is  the  history  of  some  three 
or  four  of  the  elder  sons,  until  Charles,  having  set  up  for  himself, 
finds  that  he  has  a  great  many  competitors.  The  next  tries  medi- 
cine, but  finds  it  hard  to  make  bread  of  calomel.  The  next — we 
will  not,  even  for  a  supposition,  say  that  out  of  the  whole  six  one 
takes  to  the  Church  as  a  mere  livelihood, — the  next,  we  may  find 
teaching  in  some  school  or  college,  and  he  continues  poor,  almost  of 
course.  One  has  some  talent  as  an  artist,  and  he  makes  a  support, 
though  it  is  a  slender  one.  Another  thinks  this  being  a  poor  gentle- 
man is  but  a  poor  business  after  all,  and  he  resolves  to  try  farming. 
But  the  education  of  his  father  and  brothers  is  against  him.  He 
feels  so  painful  a  distinction  between  himself  and  the  rest,  that  his 
courage  fails,  and  he  studies  a  profession  after  all.  It  is  not  until 
the  youngest  has  witnessed  the  struggles  of  pride  and  poverty  and 
pangs  of  'hope  deferred,'  wearing  the  very  life  out  of  the  wholo 


198  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


family,  that  he.  resolves  upon  a  more  manly  course.  He  is  regularly 
apprenticed  to  an  architect ;  learns  the  business  thoroughly,  and  has 
during  his  time  of  service  the  advantage  which  may  be  enjoyed  in 
many  other  branches  of  business,  a  constant  familiarity  with  objects 
of  taste  and  refinement.  He  has  also  the  advantage  of  a  means  of 
living  which  is  referable  to  rules,  and  can  be  judged  of  with  cer- 
tainty. He  thrives,  marries,  lives  respectably,  and  is  happy.  His 
brothers  have  an  air,  when  speaking  of  him,  as  if  he  had  rather  lost 
caste,  yet  they  are  not  averse  to  borrowing  money  of  him  sub  rosa, 
and  their  unprosperous  condition  proves  no  small  drawback  upon  his 
comfort.  He  has  chosen  one  of  many  professions  which,  though 
connected  with  mechanical  effort,  do  not  necessarily  imply  any  lack 
of  intellectual  culture  or  social  refinement ;  and  he  has  secured  com- 
petence, peace,  ability  to  assist  others,  in  place  of  that  grinding  pov- 
erty which  is  imbittered  by  a  constant  effort  at  concealment,  and 
that  close  application  of  every  dollar  to  purposes  connected  wjth 
appearance ,  which  allows  nothing  to  spare  in  any  emergency ;  a  con- 
dition more  inevitably  belittling  (if  we  may  be  allowed  the  use  of  a 
kitchen  word  in  a  utilitarian  discussion)  than  any  mechanical  em- 
ployment, stitching  not  excepted. 

Do  we  not  need  standards  s_adly  ?  Or  is  it  only  a  little  more  setf- 
reliance,  self-recollection,  self-respect  ?  a  more  distinct  perception 
of  our  true  interest  and  dignity  ?  a  clear-sighted  preference  of  reality 
to  mere  appearance,  of  the  inward  to  the  outward  ?  Something  is 
lacking,  certainly  ;  and  the  inquiry  is  worth  making — '  What  is  it  P 


SKETCH  OF  A  CASE; 

OR    A    PHYSICIAN    EXTRAORDINARY. 

f  \ 

DOCTOR  R sat  alone  in  his  study  when  a  lady  was  announced. 

"  Mrs.  Waldorf,  sir,"  and  the  doctor  laid  down  his  pen  and  recieved 
his  visiter  very  cordially.  She  was  the  wife  of  a  rich  German  mer- 
chant, and  a  distant  cousin  of  his  own  ;  a  handsome  woman  of  about 
five  and  thirty,  with  sufficient  repose  of  manner,  but  too  spirited  an 
eye  to  pass  for  a  mere  fashionable  machine. 

"  I  have  come  to  you,  doctor,  instead  of  sending  for  you,"  began 
the  lady,  "  because  I  do  not  wish  Mr.  Waldorf  to  know  I  have 
thought  it  necessary  to  consult  you.  He  is  so  easily  alarmed,  and 
if  he  knew  you  had  prescribed  for  me  would  watch  me  so  closely 
and  insist  so  much  upon  my  observance  of  your  directions  to  the 
very  letter,  that  I  should  have  no  peace." 

The  doctor  smiled,  as  if  he  thought  Mr.  Waldorf  would  not  be  so 
far  wrong  as  his  lady  might  suppose. 

"  But  what  is  it,  my  dear  madam  ?"  he  said,  taking  Mrs.  Wal- 
dorfs  hand  and  giving  a  look  of  professional  scrutiny  to  her  face. 
"  You  look  well,  though  there  is  a  slight  flaccidity  about  the  eyes,  and 
not  quite  so  ruby  a  nether  lip  as  one  might  wish  to  see.  What  is  it  V 

u  Oh  !  a  thousand  things,  doctor  ;  my  health  is  miserable — at  least 


200  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


I  sometimes  think  so ;  I  have  pains  in  the  right  side* — and  such 
flutterings  at  my  heart — and  such  lassitude — and  such  headaches— 
and  sleep  so  miserably — " 

"  Are  your  pains  very  severe  ?  are  they  of  a  heavy,  dull  kind,  or 
sharp  and  darting  ?  and  how  often  do  you  experience  them  ?" 

"  They  are  not  very  constant — no,  not  constant,  certainly,  nor  very 
severe — but,  doctor,  they  fill  me  with  apprehensions  of  future  evil 
It  is  not  present  suffering  of  which  I  complain,  so  much  as  a  fear  of 
worse  to  come.  I  dread  lest  disease  should  make  such  progress, 
unnoticed,  that  it  will  be  vain  to  attempt  a  cure."  And  Mrs.  Wal- 
dorf's eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  very  thought  of  her  troubles. 

"  You  are  wise  to  take  it  in  time,"  said  Doctor  R .  "But  tell 

me  more  of  these  symptoms.  At  what  time  of  the  day  do  you 
generally  feel  most  indisposed  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  can  scarcely  say.  When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  am 
always  veiy  miserable.  My  head  is  full  of  dull  pain,  especially 
about  the  eyes.  My  lips  are  parched  ;  I  find  it  a  great  exertion  to 
dress  myself,  and  never  have  the  slightest  appetite  for  breakfast." 

*  Ah !  indeed  !'  mused  the  doctor, '  you  breakfast  as  soon  as  you 
arise,  I  presume.     At  what  hour  do  you  retire  ?' 

'  We  make  it  a  rule  to  be  in  bed  by  twelve,  unless  we  happen  to 
be  engaged  out,  which  is  but  seldom.  Waldorf  detests  parties  and 
late  hours.  We  spend  our  evenings  with  music  or  books,  very 
quietly.1 

*  At  what  hour  do  you  sup  V 

1  We  have  nothing  like  a  regular  supper,  but  for  mere  sociality's 
sake  we  have  a  tray  brought  up  about  ten.  I  take  nothing  beyond 
a  bit  of  chicken  or  a  few  oysters,  or  a  slice  of  cake,  and  sometimes 
only  a  cracker  and  a  glass  of  wine.  You  look  as  if  you  thought 
even  this  were  better  omitted ;  but  I  should  scarcely  know  how  to 


SKETCH  OF  A  CASE.  201 


cut  off  one  of  my  husband's  few  social  pleasures.  He  would 
touch  nothing  if  I  did  not  partake  with  him.  He  thinks  as  ill  of 
suppers  as  you  do.' 

*  I  beg  your  pardon — I  interrupted  your  detail  of  symptoms  to 
ask  these  questions  as  to  the  evening.     You  say  you  have  no  appe- 
tite  for   breakfast — how  long   do   these   feelings   of  languor   and 
exhaustion  continue  to  trouble  you  ?' 

*  Oh !  I  generally  feel   better  after  a  cup   of  coffee ;  and   after 
practising  at  the  harp  or  the  piano-forte   for  an  hour  or  two,  or 
sometimes  three  when  I  have  new  music,  I  generally  drive  out, 
arid  perhaps  shop  a  little,  or  at  any  rate  take  a  turn  into  the  coun- 
try  for  the   air,  and  usually  return  somewhat  refreshed.' 

'  Do  you  take  your  airings  alone  ?' 

*  Yes — perforce,  almost.     There  are  none  of  my  intimate  friends 
who  can  go  with  me.     They  drive  out  regularly,  and  take  children 
with   them,  or  they  have  other  objects ;  one  cannot  ask   a   mere 
acquaintance,  so  I  go  alone,  which  is  not  veiy  exhilarating.' 

'Your  own  children  are  not  at  home  ?' 

'  No — if  they  were,  I  should  need  no  other  company  for  the  car- 
riage.    The  society  of  young  people  is  pleasant  to  me,  but  Adelaide 

is  at  Madame 's  and  Ernest  is  with  a  German  clergyman,  a 

friend  of  his  father's.  I  fancy  my  rides  would  be  of  much  greater 
service  to  me  if  I  had  a  pleasant  companion  or  two.1 
•  *  Undoubtedly — and  I  know  a  lady  and  her  daughter  to  whom  a 
regular  morning  airing  with  such  society  as  that  of  Mrs.  Waldorf 
would  be  the  very  breath  of  life !  What  a  pity  that  etiquette 
conies  in  the  way  of  so  many  good  things  ?  But  go  on,  I  beg.' 

*  Etiquette  !  say  not  another  word,  doctor — who  and  where  are 
these  friends  or  patients  of  yours  ?     I  should  be  happy  if  I  could 

9* 


202  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


offer  any  service.  I  will  call  with  you  on  them  this  very  day  if  you 
like,  and  invite  them  to  ride  with  me  daily.' 

'  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  my  dear  madam,'  said  Dr.  R , 

1  it  is  what  I  could  not  venture  to  ask.  Yet  I  am  not  afraid  you 
will  not  find  my  friends  at  least  tolerably  agreeable — but  will  you 
proceed  with  the  account  you  were  giving  me  of  your  daily  habits — 
you  dine  at  four,  I  believe  ?' 

*  That  is  our  hour,  but  Mr.  Waldorf  is  often  detained  until  five, 
and  I  never  dine  without  him.     For  my  own  part  I  should  not  care 
if  dinner  were  stricken  from  the  day.     I  lunch  about  one,  and  with 
tolerable  appetite,  and  I  never  wish  to  eat  again  until  supper  time. 
We  take  tea,  however  at  seven,  and — ' 

*  Green  tea,  I  presume — do  you  take  it  strong  ?' 

*  Oh  !  not  very,  if  I  take  it  too  strong  I  do  not  sleep  at  all.' 
1  You  sleep  but  indifferently,  you  tell  me  ?' 

*  Yes,  generally  ;  and  wake  many  times  in  the  night ;  sometimes 
in  the  horrors,  so  that  I  am  full  of  undefinable  fears,  and  dare  not 
open  my  eyes  lest  the  objects  in  the  room  should  assume  terrific 
shapes.     The  very  shades  cast  by  the  night-lamp  have  power  at 
such  times  to  appal  me.' 

The  doctor's  professional  inquiries  extended  to  a  still  greater 
length,  but  he  had  guessed  Mrs.  Waldorf's  complaint  before  ha 
arrived  at  this  point  in  the  list.  He  had  found  solitude,  inactivity, 
late  hours,  suppers,  coffee,  green  tea,  music  and  books — with  not 
one  counterbalancing  item  of  that  labor — effort — sacrifice — which 
has  been  affixed  as  the  unchanging  price  of  health  and  spirits. 
Mrs.  Waldorf  was  one  of  the  hundreds  if  not  thousands  of  ladies  in 
our  land  who  walk  through  the  world  without  ever  discovering  the 
secret  of  life.  She  had  abundant  wealth  and  a  most  indulgent  hus- 
band, with  all  that  this  world  can  offer  in  point  of  comfort,  and  she 


SKETCH  OF  A  CASE.  203 


imagined  that  health  alone  was  wanting  to  complete  her  happiness. 
Passive  happiness  !  what  a  dream  ! 

Doctor  R was  at  the  head  of  his  profession,  and  he  had 

some  medicines  at  his  command  which  are  not  known  at  the  hospi- 
tals. He  thought  he  could  cure  Mrs.  Waldorf,  but  he  hinted  that 
he  feared  he  should  find  her  but  a  poor  patient. 

*  You  do  not  wish  Mr.  Waldorf  to  know  you  are  under  my  care 
lest  he  should  object  to  your  neglecting  my  remedies— -J 

1  Oh,  indeed  doctor,  I  shall  be  very  faithful !  Try  me !  You  can- 
not prescribe  anything  too  difficult.  Shall  I  travel  to  the  Pyramids 
barefoot,  and  live  on  bread  and  water  all  the  way  ?  I  am  only  afraid 
Waldorf  should  insist  upon  my  taking  odious  drugs,  and — you 
know  cautions  meeting  one  at  every  turn  are  so  tiresome  !' 

'  Then  you  are  willing  to  undertake  any  remedy  which  is  not  at 
all  disagreeable,  and  which  may  be  used  or  omitted  a  discretion — 

'  No,  no — indeed  you  mistake  me.  I  only  beg  that  it  may  not 
be  too  unpleasant.  I  will  do  just  as  you  say/ 

Mrs.  Waldorf  now  had  a  fine  color,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  as  of 

old.  She  had  every  confidence  in  the  skill  of  Dr.  R ,  and  the 

effort  of  recalling  and  recounting  her  symptoms  had  given  an  impe- 
tus to  her  thoughts  and  a  quicker  current  to  her  blood. 

The  doctor  apologized.  He  had  an  appointment  and  his  hour 
had  come. 

*  But  before  I  leave  you  thus  unceremoniously,'  he  said,- '  it  strikes 
me  that  there  is  a  root  in  my  garden  which  might  be  of  essential 
service  to  you,  to  begin,  with  at  least.     You  know  I  have  a  little 
spot  in  which  I  cultivate  a  few  rare  botanical  specimens.     Might  I 
venture  to  ask  you*  to  search  for  the  root  I  speak  of  I     It  is  in  that  ' 
little  square   compartment  in   the  corner,   which   appears  nearly 
vacant.' 


204  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


'  Oh,  certainly — but  had  I  not  better  call  John,  as  your  own  man 
is  going  away  with  you  ?' 

'  John  !  Bless  my  soul,  my  dear  Madam,  there  is  not  a  John  in 
the  world  that  I  would  trust  in  my  sanctum  !  No  hand  but  mine, 
and  that  of  a  gardener  whom  I  employ  occasionally  under  my  own 
direction,  ever  intrudes  among  my  pets.  Let  me  entreat  you,  since 
I  have  not  another  moment  to  spare,  to  take  this  little  trowel  and 
search  with  your  own  hands  until  you  discover  an  oblong  white  root 
like  this' — opening  a  book  of  botanical  plants  and  exhibiting  some- 
thing that  looked  veiy  much  like  a  Jerusalem  artichoke — *  Take  that 
and  have  it  washed  and  grated  into  a  gill  of  Port,  of  which  try  ten 
drops  in  a  little  water  three  times  a  day.  I  will  see  you  again  very 

soon — but  now  I  must  run  away — '  and  Doctor  R departed, 

leaving  Mrs.  Waldorf  in  musing  mood. 

She  cast  a  look  at  the  garden,  which  lay  just  beneath  the  window, 
full  of  flowers;  then  at  the  trowel — a  strange  implement  in  her 

hand.     She  thought  Doctor  R very  odd,  certainly,  but  she 

resolved  to  follow  his  directions  implicitly.  She  went  down  .stairs 
and  was  soon  digging  very  zealously.  Her  glove  was  split  by  the 
first  effort,  of  course  ;  for  a  fashionably  fitted  glove  admits  not  the 
free  exercise  of  the  muscles — but  all  was  of  no  avail.  Every  corner 
of  the  little  square  was  disturbed,  but  no  talisman  appeared. 
Weary  at  length  of  her  new  employment,  Mrs.  Waldorf  gave  up  in 
despair,  an4  sat  down  in  a  little  arbor  which  offered  its  shade  invit- 
ingly near  her.  Here  she  sank  into  a  pleasant  reverie,  as  one  can 
scarcely  help  doing  in  a  garden  full  of  sweet  flowers,  and  so  pleasant 
was  the  sense  of  repose  after  labor,  that  she  thought  not  of  the  lapse 
of  time  until  she  was  startled  by  the  voice  of  Doctor  R ,  re- 
turned from  his  visit  and  exceedingly  surprised  to  find  her  still 
trowel  in  hand. 


SKETCH  OF  A  CASE.  205 


4  Why,  my  dear  Madam,'  he  exclaimed,  'you  are  forgetting  yo*>ir 
wish  that  Mr.  Waldorf  should  not  discover  your  visit  to  me  !  If  he 
walks  much  in  town  he  has  had  ample  opportunity  to  observe  his 
carriage  at  my  door  these  two  hours.  You  must  leara  to  carry  on 
clandestine  affairs  better  than  this !  Have  you  the  medicine  ?' 

Mrs.  Waldorf  laughed  and  related  her  ill  success,  which  the  doctor 
very  much  regretted,  although  he  did  not  offer  to  assist  in  the 
search. 

4  You  are  feeling  tolerably  well  just  now,  I  think,'  he  said ;  4  your 
color  is  better  than  when  you  came  in  the  morning.' 

4  Oh  yes !  much  better  just  now !  But  how  charming  your  gar- 
den is  !  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  make  a  pet  of  it.  We  too  have 
a  few  square  inches  of  garden,  but  it  gives  me  but  little  pleasure, 
because  I  have  never  done  anything  to  it  myself.  I  think  I  shall 
get  a  trowel  of  my  own.' 

*  You  delight  me !  You  have  only  to  cultivate  and  bring  to  per- 
fection a  single  bed  of  carnations,  to  become  as  great  an  enthusiast 
as  myself.  But  it  must  be  done  by  your  own  hands — ' 

4 Yes,  certainly;  but  now  I  must  be  gone.  To-morrow  I  will 
hold  myself  in  readiness  to  call  on  our  friends  at  any  hour  you  will 
appoint.' 

4 What  say  you  to  eleven?  Would  that  be  too  barbarous! 
The  air  is  worth  a  good  deal  more  at  eleven  than  at  one.' 

4  At  seven,  if  you  like  !  Do  not  imagine  me  so  very  a  slave  to 
.absurd  fashions !  I  am  determined  you  shall  own  me  a  reasonable 
woman  yet.' 

Mrs.  Waldorf  called  from  the  carriage  window — 4  You'll  not  forget 
to  send  the  medicine,  doctor  ?' 

*•  Certainly  not !  you  shall  have  it  at  seven  this  evening,  and  I 
trust  you  will  take  it  with  exact  regularity.' 


206  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 

*Do  not  fear  me/  she  said,  and  the  doctor  made  his  bow  of 
adieu. 

The  medicine  came  at  seven,  with  a  sediment  which  looked  not  a 
little  like  grated  potato,  and  without  the  slightest  disagreeable  taste. 
Accompanying  directions  required  the  disuse,  for  the  present,  of 
coffee  and  green  tea ;  and  recommended  to  Mrs.  Waldorf  a  daily 
walk  and  a  very  early  bed-hour. 

The  lady  took  her  ten  drops  at  nine,  and  felt  so  much  better  that 
she  could  not  help  telling  her  husband  all  about  her  visit  to  Doc- 

Ihe  next  morning  proved  cloudy,  and  Mrs.  Waldorf  felt  rather 
languid,  but  after  her  dose,  found  an  improved  appetite  for  break- 
fast. She  sat  down  to  her  music,  but  looked  frequently  at  the 
clouds  and  at  her  watch,  thinking  of  her  appointment.  When  the 
hour  arrived  the  envious  skies  poured  down  such  showers  as  will 
damp  any  body's  ardor.  The  drive  must  be  given  up  for  that  day, 
and  it  passed  as  usual,  with  only  the  interlude  of  the  magic  drops. 

The  next  day  was  as  bad,  and  the  day  after  not  a  great  deal 
better.  Mrs.  Waldorf's  pains  and  palpitations  almost  discouraged 
her.  She  was  quite  sure  she  had  a  liver  complaint.  But  on  the 
fourth  morning  the  sun  rose  gloriously,  and  the  face  of  nature,  clean 
washed,  shone  with  renewed  beauty.  At  eleven  the  carnage  and 
the  lady  were  at  Doctor  R 's  door. 

'  Have  you  courage  to  see  an  invalid — a  sad  sufferer  ?'  said  the 
doctor. 

( Oh,  certainly !     I  am  an  invalid  myself,  you  know.7 

1  Ah  !  my  dear  lady,  my  invalid  wears  a  different  aspect !  Yet  I 
hope  she  is  going  to  recover,  and  I  shall  trust  to  your  humanity  if 
the  scene  prove  a  sad  one.  Sickness  of  the  mind  was,  I  think,  the 
origin  of  the  evil,  but  it  has  almost  overpowered  the  frail  body. 


SKETCH  OF  A  CASE.  207 


This  young  lady  and  her  mother  have  been  giving  lessons  in  music 
and  in  Italian,  and  have  had  but  slender  success  in  the  whirl  of 
competition.  As  nearly  as  I  can  discover,  they  came  to  this  coun- 
try hoping  to  find  reverse  of  fortune  easier  to  bear  among  strangers ; 
and  their  course  was  determined  hitherward  in  consequence  of  earlier 
family  troubles  which  drove  a  son  of  Madame  Vamiglia  to  America. 
He  was  a  liberal,  and  both  displeased  his  father  and  put  himself  in 
danger  from  government,  by  some  unsuccessful  attempt  at  home. 
The 'father  is  since  dead,  and  the  old  lady  and  her  daughter,  left  in 
poverty  and  loneliness,  'determined  on  following  the  young  man  to" 
the  new  world.  But  here  we  are.' 

And  they  stopped  before  a  small  house  in  a  back  street.  Mrs. 
¥  Waldorf  was  shown  into  a  very  humble  parlor,  while  the  doctor 
went  to  prepare  his  patient.  He  returned  presently  with  Madame 
Vamiglia,  a  well-bred  woman  past  middle  age.  She  expressed  her 
grateful  sense  of  Mrs.  Waldorf's  kindness,  but  their  communication 
was  rather  pantomimical,  for  the  lady  found  her  song-Italian  of  little 
service,  and  the  signora  had  not  much  conversational  English. 

However,  with  some  French,  and  occasional  aid  from  Doctor  R , 

their  acquaintance  was  somewhat  ripened  before  they  went  to  the 
bedside- of  the  sufferer.  Mrs.  Waldorf  turned  pale,  and  felt  ready 
to  faint,  at  the  sight  which  presented  itself. 

There  was  a.  low,  narrow  couch  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  scarce 
larger  than  an  infant's  crib,  and  on  it  lay  what  seemed  a  mere  rem- 
nant of  mortality.  Large  dark  eyes,  full  of  a  sort  of  preternatural 
light,  alone  spoke  of  life  and  motion.  The. figure  had  been  always 
extremely  small,  and  was  now  wasted  till  it  scarce  lifted  the  light 
covering  of  the  mattress.  Madame  Vamiglia  went  forward  and 
spoke  in  a  low  tone  to  her  daughter,  and  Mrs.  Waldorf  was  glad  to 


208  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 

sink  into  the  chair  set  for  her  by  Doctor  R .  The  ghastly  ap- 
pearance of  the  poor  girl  nearly  overcame  her. 

The  mother  introduced  her  guest  to  her  daughter,  who  could  only 
look  an  acknowledgment ;  and  then  asked  the  doctor  if  he  thought 
it  possible  that  Ippolita  could  bear  the  motion  of  a  carriage. 

'She  seems  weaker  to-day,'  he  replied;  'very  weak  indeed. 
Yet,  if  Mrs.  Waldorf  will  allow  the  mattress  to  be  put  in,  I  think 
we  may  venture.' 

Madame  Vamiglia  seemed  full  of  anxiety  lest  the  experiment 
should  prove  too  much  for  the  flickering  remnant  of  life  ;  but  after 
much  preparation,  John  was  called,  and  the  poor  sufferer  transferred, 
mattress  and  all,  to  the  back  seat.  Mrs.  Waldorf  and  her  mother 
took  the  front,  and  in  this  way  they  drove  slowly  out  towards  the 
country. 

At  first  the  poor  little  signorina  seemed  exhausted  almost  unto 
death,  and  her  mother  watched  her  with  the  most  agonized  solici- 
tude ;  but  after  a  while  she  became  accustomed  to  the  gentle  mo- 
tion, and  seemed  revived  by  the  fresh  air.  As  the  road  wound 
through  a  green  lane  shaded  with  old  trees,  Ippolita  looked  about 
her  with  animation,  and  made  a  sign  of  pleasure  with  her  wasted 
hand.  Tears  started  to  her  mother's  eyes,  and  she  looked  to  Mrs. 
Waldorf  for  sympathy,  and  not  in  vain. 

At  length  the  invalid  gave  a  sign,  and  they  turned  about. 
When  they  reached  the  lodging-house,  Ippolita  was  in  a  quiet  sleep, 
and  they  carried  her  back  to  her  own  room  almost  undisturbed. 

'  To-morrow  at  eleven !'  whispered  Mrs.  Waldorf,  at  parting. 
Madame  Vamiglia  pressed  her  hand,  but  could  not  speak. 

We  need  not  describe  the  morning  rides  which  succeeded  this 
auspicious  commencement.  We  need  not  trace  step  by  step,  the 
slow  amendment  of  the  young  Italian,  nor  attempt  to  express,  by 


SKETCH  OF  A  CASE.  209 


words,  the  gratitude  of  both  mother  and  daughter.  They  felt 
TYords  to  be  totally  inadequate.  We  may  mention,  however,  the 
rapid  improvement  of  Mrs.  Waldorf  s  health  and  spirits,  which  must 

of  course  be  ascribed  to  that  excellent  medicine  of  Dr.  R 's. 

This  enabled  that  lady  to  study  Italian  most  strenuously,  both  at 
home  and  by  familiar  lessons  from  Madame  Vamiglia  and  her 
daughter,  during  their  prolonged  excursions.  This  pursuit  was 
never  found  to  increase  the  palpitations,  and  seemed  also  a  specific 
against  headache. 

Before  Ippolita  had  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  independent  cf  the 
daily  airing,  Mrs.  Waldorf  picked  up  a  new  object  of  interest.  We 
say  picked  up,  for  it  was  a  road-side  acquaintance,  and  as  Mrs. 
Waldorf  has  since  observed,  one  which  she  never  would  have  made 
if  she  had  been  reading  during  her  drive,  as  was  her  custom  for- 
merly. She  had,  every  morning  for  some  time,  observed  a  poor 
woman  drawing  a  basket-wagon  of  curious  construction,  in  which 
lay  a  child  much  larger  than  is  usually  found  in  such  vehicles.  The 
child  was  pretty,  and  tastefully,  though  plainly,  drest ;  but  the 
whole  establishment  bespoke  anything  but  abundant  means,  so  that 
Mrs.  Waldorf  was  puzzled  to  make  out  the  character  of  the  group. 
The  woman  had  not  the  air  of  a  servant,  and  yet  the  child  did 
not  look  as  if  it  could  be  her  child.  In  short,  after  seeing 
the  same  thing  a  dozen  times,  Mrs.  Waldorf  s  curiosity  was  a  good 
deal  excited. 

She  did  not,  however,  venture  to  make  any  inquiries  until  it  so 
chanced  that,  in  the  veiy  green  lane  we  have  spoken  of — the  favor- 
ite resort  of  the  grateful  Ippolita — they  found  the  poor  woman, 
with  the  child  fainting  in  her  arms.  Grief  and  anxiety  were  painted 
on  her  honest  face,  and  she  was  so  absorbed  in  her  efforts  for  the 


210  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


recovery  of  the  child  that  she  scarcely  answered  Mrs.  Waldorf s 
sympathizing  inquiries. 

*  Oh  don't  trouble  yourself,  ma'am  !     It  is  nothing  new  !     She's 
this  way  very  often.     It's  the  hoopin'-cough,  ma'am ;  and  I  am 
afeard  it'll  be  the  death  of  her,  poor  lamb !  in  spite  of  all  we  can 
do !'     And  she  tossed  the  child  in  the  air,  and  fanned  its  face  till  the 
breath  returned. 

*  Is  it  your  own  ?'  asked  Mrs.  Waldoii 

'  No  indeed,  ma'am  !  mine  are  other  guess  lookin'  children,  thank 
God !  This  dear  babe's  mother  is  a  delicate  young  lady  that  lives 
neighbor  to  me,  as  has  a  sick  husband  that  she  can't  leave.  I'm  a 
washerwoman,  ma'am,  if  you  please,  and  I  have  to  go  quite  away 
down  town  every  day  almost,  and  so  I  take  this  poor  thing  in  my 
basket— it's  large  enough,  you  see — and  so  gives  her  a  turn  in  the 
open  air,  'cause  the  doctor  says  it's  the  open  air,  if  anything  that'll 
do  her  good.' 

'  You  are  very  good,'  said  Mrs.  Waldorf,  who  had  listened  in  a 
kind  of  reverie,  her  thoughts  reverting  to  her  lonely  drives. 

'  Oh  no,  ma'am !  it's  far  from  good  I  am !  The  Lord  knows 
that !  But  a  little  bit  of  neighborly  kindness  like  that,  is  what  tho 
poor  often  does  for  one  another,  and  don't  think  anything  of  it, 
neither/  To  be  sure  this  babe's  mother  isn't  the  likes  of  me, 
ma'am,  but  she  is  far  worse  off  than  she  has  been.  Her  husband  is 
what  they  call  an  accountant — a  kind  of  clerk,  like  ;  and  he  can't 
get  no  employ,  and  I  think  it's  breaking  his  heart  pretty  fast.' 

Here  Mrs.  Waldorf  fairly  burst  into  tears.  *  Tell  me  where  you 
live,'  she  said, '  and  say  nothing  to  this  lady  you  speak  of,  but  come 
to  me  to-morrow,  will  you  ?'  and  she  put  a  card  into  the  poor 
woman's  hand. 


SKETCH  OF  A  CASE.  211 


'  Surely  I  will  ma'am,'  said  the  washerwoman,  l  and  it's  a  kind 
heart  you  have !' 

Mrs.  Waldorf  rode  home  with  her  heart  and  head  full,  *  How 
could  I  ever  content  myself  with  giving  money]  she  said  to  herself, 
*  when  there  is  so  much  to  be  done  /' 

*  *  *  *  * 

'  How  do  you  find  yourself,  this  morning,  my  dear  madam  !'  said 
Doctor ,  shortly  after  this. 

'  Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you  !' 

'  What !  no  more  lassitude  !  no  more  headaches  !' 

'  Nothing  of  the  sort,  I  assure  !     I  never  felt  better. 

'  When  did  your  symptoms  abate  ?' 

'  I  can  scarcely  tell ;  I  have  been  too  much  occupied  of  late,  to 
think  of  symptoms.  I  am  so  much  interested  in  the  study  of 
Italian  that  I  am  going  to  ask  Madame  Vamiglia  and  her  daughter 
to  come  to  us  for  awhile,  and  we  shall  have  Adelaide  at  home  to 
take  advantage  of  so  good  an  opportunity  for  learning  to  converse.' 

*  And  your  ardor  in  searching  out  the  distressed  has  been  the 
means  of  restoring  the  son  to  the  mother.     How  happy  you  must 
be?' 

*  That  is  a  happiness  which  I  owe  to  you  !  and  Mr.  Waldorf  is 
going  to  employ  Mr.  Vamiglia,  who  understands  and  writes  half  a 
dozen  different  languages,  and  will  be  invaluable  to  him.     But  first 
the  family  are  to  go  to  the  sea-shore  for  a  month,  to  recruit ;  and  I 
imagine  they  will  need  a  good  deal  of  preparation — so  that  I  have 
really  no  time  to  be  ill.' 

'  Then  you  have  given  up  the  going  to  the  Pyramids  ?' 

*  Ah !  my  dear  sir !  I  must  thank  you  for  showing  me  better 
sources  of  interest  and  excitement.     I  believe  it  must  have  been  a 


212  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


little  ruse  on  your  part — say !  was  not  that  famous  medicine  of 
yours  only  a  trick — an  inganno  felice  P 

'  A  trick !  Oh !  excuse  me  !  *  Call  it  by  some  better  name  P  I 
beseech  you,'  said  the  doctor  laughing,  '  it  was  a  most  valuable  medi- 
cine !  Indeed  the  whole  Materia  Medica  would  be  often  powerless 
without  the  placebo !  But  I  confess  I  could  not  think  of  sending 
you  to  the  Pyramids,  when  there  are  not  only  pyramids  but  moun- 
tains of  sorrow  and  suffering  at  home,  which  shun  the  eye  of  com- 
mon charity,  but  which  must  be  surmounted  by  just  such  heads, 
hearts  and  purses  as  those  of  Mrs.  Waldorf  P 


THE  DARK  SIDE, 

..*  We  may  predict  a  man's  success  in  life  from  his  spirits,'  says  Mr. 
Emerson  (viva  voce,  if  not  in  his  published  lectures).  Not  from  his 
spirit,  surely,  or  so  many  of  the  loveliest  would  not  be  for  ever  toil- 
ing on  the  lower  rounds  of  life's  ladder,  while  those  who  know  not 
what  manner  of  spirit  they  are  of,  and  would  be  ashamed  to  look 
the  truth  in  the  face  if  it  were  presented  to  them,  are  sitting  coolly 
at  the  top,  or  waving  their  hats  in  triumph  at  the  moist-browed 
throng  below.  A  man's  spirit — made  up  of  his  honesty,  his  meek- 
ness, his  patience,  his  humility,  his  charity,  his  sympathy — will  not 
insure  his  success,  allowing  the  world  to  be  judge  of  success,  as  it 
claims  to  be.  Animal  spirits  go  much  further  towards  it :  and  per- 
haps Mr.  Emerson  meant  these.  They  are  the  world's  sine  qua 
non.  It  never  sympathizes  with  one's  depression.  Grief  it  can 
understand,  because  there  is  vivacity  in  grief.  It  respects  passion, 
for  passion  has  movement  and  energy.  But  the  man  who  can  be 
discouraged  by  any  stroke  of  fate  whatever,  it  sets  down  as  a  pol- 
troon, and  if  it  turn  not  the  cold  shoulder  of  contempt  upon  him,  it 
either  treats  him  as  a  foil,  or  a  stepping-stone,  or  it  goes  round  as  if 
he  had  never  existed. 

This  discipline  of  Mother  World  seems  somewhat  hard  to  the  life- 


214  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


pupil.  Like  the  rattan,  or  the  slipper  of  nnrsery-training,  it  is  rather 
pungent  and  irritating,  for  the  time,  than  convincing  or  restorative. 
But  like  those  balmy  bitters,  it  saves  a  world  of  crude  philosophizing 
when  we  have  learned  to  consider  it  inevitable.  As  the  rod  fur- 
nishes the  only  royal  road  to  learning,  so  the  world's  neglect  offers 
the  man  who  has  not  patience  and  courage  for  the  beaten  track,  a 
short-cut  to  common  sense  ;  happy  if  egotism  have  not  so  befilmed 
his  mental  sight,  that  the  iron  finger  points  in  vain  the  upward 
path ! 

These  remarks,  however,  apply  only  to  ordinaiy  grumblers — the 
immense  class  of  the  great  unappreciated,  whose  sense  of  their  own 
merits  wraps  them  all  over  like  a  cloak,  so  that  out-siders  may  bo 
excused  if  they  pass  by  unconscious.  There  are  others  whose  spirits 
fall  below  the  tone  required  for  the  life-struggle,  through  mere  tender- 
ness and  humility.  These  could  be  tolerably  cheerful  under  their 
own  troubles,  if  that  were  all ;  but  it  is  a  necessity  of  their  nature  to 
become  so  completely  interwoven  with  the  fate  and  feelings  of  those 
whom  they  find  about  them,  that  no  thread  can  be  snapped  without 
disturbing  them.  Their  indentity  is  diffused,  as  it  were  ;  they  have 
a  great  frontier  lying  open  to  the  enemy.  Their  house  of  life  has 
so  many  windows  for  the  sunshine,  that  every  blast  finds  entrance. 
They  become  egotists  through  mere  forgetfulness  of  self,  since  all  the 
misfortunes  of  those  they  love  are  personal  to  them,  and  lead,  like 
common  egotism,  to  a  morbid  sensibility.  We  may  exaggerate  the 
troubles  of  our  friends,  as  well  as  our  own,  and  fall  into  despondency 
as  proxy  as  well  as  principal. 

This  evil  being  the  result  of  experience,  it  must  be  cured,  homoeo- 
pathically,  by  more  experience.  Hard  rubs  have  no  place  in  the 
treatment  of  such  cases.  As  "amiable"  people  are  apt  to  be  very 
obstinate,  so  amiable  weaknesses  defy  all  direct  efforts  at  reform.  If 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  215 


they  do  not  cure  themselves  they  are  hopeless.  Their  owners  are 
the  last  to  believe  them  troublesome  or  inconvenient,  as  the  Valai- 
sans  are  said  to  consider  their  habitual  goitre  rather  an  ornament 
than  otherwise. 

But  we  may,  perhaps,  better  illustrate  the  idea  which  set  our  pen 
in  motion,  by  &  sketch  of  the  circumstances  under  which  a  certain 
person,  whom  we  may  as  well  call  John  Todd  as  anything  else,  came 
to  consider  himself  as  being  de  trop  in  the  world.  .  He  had  some 
apology,  as  the  reader  will  allow. 

He  was  the  eldest  son  in  a  household  whose  head  was  just 
so  much  worse  than  the  head  of  a  bad  pin  that  it  did  not  come  oflj 
although  decidedly  of  no  use  to  any  one,  even  the  owner !  Why 
such  men  are  called  to  preside  over  tables  badly  covered  in 
proportion  as  they  are  well  surrounded,  seems  strange,  but  not  so 
strange  as  the  fact'  that  they  are  apt  to  be  quite  jolly,  rather 
personable,  and  particularly  well-dressed  people,  full  of  wonder 
at  the  obstinate  toiling  and  moiling  of  the  world  around  them,  and 
very  severe  upon  the  avarice  of  those  who,  having  worked  hard  for 
their  money,  are  disposed  to  be  over-careful  of  it.  They  are 
always  men  of  the  most  generous  feelings  ;  wishing  for  a  million  of 
dollars  that  they  might  have  wherewithal  to  help  everybody  that 
needs  help,  and  contriving  ingenious  plans  of  relief  for  all  those  ills 
of  life  which  are  supposed  to  lie  within  the  curative  powers  of  ready 
cash.  As  to  their  own  means  of  living,  they  are  invariably  on  the 
brink  of  becoming  suddenly  rich  ;  either  by  the  death  of  an  uncle, 
who  went  to  sea  when  he  was  a  boy  and  has  never  been  heard  of 
since,  and  therefore  must  come  home  a  nabob ;  or  by  the  advanced 
value  of  land  in  the  Northwest  Territory,  bought  of  the  Indians  at 
the  rate  of  a  gallon  of  whiskey  the  quarter  section,  twenty  years 
ago,  and  on  which  no  taxes  have  as  yet  been  demanded  ;  or  from 


216  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


the  success  of  an  entirely  new  branch  of  business,  devised  by  the 
jolly  man  himself,  and  entered  into  with  much  zeal  by  his  crony  and 
double,  Jack  Thompson,  who  offers  to  be  the  outdoor  partner, 
making  the  thin^  popular,  by  persuading  people  it  is  just  what  they 
want.  Some  form  of  '  speculation '  it  must  be ;  for  this  order  of 
genius  finds  mere  industry  dreadfully  slow. 

John  Todd,  then,  was  the  son  of  a  gentleman,  i.  e.,  of  a  man 
who  had  nothing,  and  who  did  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  for  his 
living,  yet  lived  very  well,  and  entertained  very  high  sentiments. 
We  need  hardly  say  that  Mrs.  Todd,  the  mother,  who  luckily  had 
had  a  very  small  annuity,  secured  to  her  by  the  foresight  of  an 
elder  brother,  was  one  of  those  hard-working,  devoted  creatures, 
who  seem  to  have  no  individual  existence,  but  to  have  been  born  the 
adjunct  and  complement  of  such  men.  How  and  where  she  found 
bread  for  the  family, — to  say  nothing  of  beef, — was  a  mystery  to 
the  neighbors,  to  whose  apprehension  Mr.  Todd  seemed  to  do 
nothing  but  soil  white  waistcoats  and  plaited  shirt-frills,  lest  his 
wife  should  get  out  of  business.  Not  but  he  went  down  town  every 
day  ;  that  was  one  of  the  duties  held  sacred  in  his  estimation. 
But  what  he  did  there  no  echo  ever  betrayed,  though  the  dinner 
hour  never  failed  to  find  him  punctually  at  home,  generally 
complaining  of  fatigue,  or  at  least  exhaustion.  Mrs.  Todd  was 
generally  too  weary  to  come  to  the  table,  which  her  husband 
excused  with  great  amenity,  kindly  advising  her  to  lie  down  and 
take  a  nap,  as  he  could  make  out  very  well,  which  he  certainly  did. 
Some  people  took  it  into  their  heads  that  he  was  the  invalid 
who  declined  giving  his  little  daughter  the  last  half  of  the  seven- 
teenth dumpling,  saying,  *  Papa's  sick !''  but  this  we  cannot 
vouch  for. 

Children  reared  under    such  auspices  are  notedly  good  and 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  217 


dutiful,  and  so  were  most  of  the  youthful  Todds  ;  but  John,  being 
the  oldest  and  ablest,  and  always  his  poor  mother's  right  hand  man, 
was  the  apex  of  the  little  pyramid,  as  well  in  character  as  in 
stature.  Indeed,  he  never  had  any  childhood.  He  occupied 
the  position  of  confidential  agent  to  his  mother ;  a  sort  of  property- 
man  and  scene-shifter  to  the  needy  establishment,  where  so  much 
was  to  be  done  with  so  little.  These  two  held  long  whispered 
conferences  with  each  other,  of  which  the  subjects  seldom  trans- 
pired— the  debates,  perhaps,  of  a  committee  of  ways  and  means  on 
pantaloons  or  potatoes.  Mysterious  signs  and  movements,  nods 
and  winks,  would  pass  between  them  occasionally,  followed  by 
dartings  hither  and  thither  on  the  part  of  John,  and  uneasy  glances 
at  the  door  or  window  on  that  of  his  mother,  while  the  Papa  Todd 
sat  reading  the  newspaper  and  fidgeted  for  his  breakfast,  and 
the  children  were  all  huddled  about  the  kitchen  fire,  because  they 
must  not  disturb  their  '  poor  father.'  It  was  a  great  thing  to  be  so 
preserved  from  selfishness  as  that  family  was,  by  its  head  taking  all 
the  risks  of  indulgences  on  his  own  shoulders.  The  virtue  of 
self-denial,  so  beautiful  to  look  at,  became  habitual  with  most  of  the 
members  ;  and  the  father  regarded  this  excellent  quality  in  his 
household  with  a  serene  complacency  quite  edifying  to  behold. 

It  was  a  time  of  great  trial  to  the  mother  when  John  was 
considered  old  enough  to  be  put  to  business,  an  epoch  which 
arrived  much  earlier  in  the  judgment  of  Mr.  than  of  Mrs.  Todd. 
*  It  ruins  a  boy  to  be  brought  up  in  idleness ! '  said  he.  *  Idleness  ! ' 
thought  the  mother,  but  she  said  nothing,  and  her  beloved  factotum 
was  placed  with  a  merchant,  who  looked  at  him  with  much  the 
same  sort  of  interest  with  which  one  regards  a  new  broom  or  a  pair 
of  bellows,  which  come  in  to  supply  the  place  of  a  worn-out  article 
of  household  service.  Here  was  a  new  page  of  life  for  our 


218  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


poor  little  friend,  who  had  always,  amid  the  general  dreariness  of 
his  lot,  had 

"  Light  upon  him  from  his  mother's  eyes," 

at  least. 

Here  were  new  duties,  new  and  mocking  faces,  long,  laborious 
days,  uncheered  by  one  kind  word  of  encouragement,  and  a  general 
consciousness  that  'a  boy  in  a  store  is  only  a  necessary  evil,  out 
of  whom  it  is  everybody's  business  to  get  as  much  work  as  possible, 
by  way  of  compensation  for  enduring  his  awkwardness.  The  boy 
had  learned,  somehow,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  fun  in  the 
world,  and  had  even  discovered  some  capacity  for  it  in  himself, 
though  he  had  deferred  the  use  of  it  under  the  emergencies  of 
home-life.  But  he  soon  found  there  must  be  a  still  further 
postponement  of  the  laughing  era.  All  was  grave  about  him, 
so  grave  that  nothing  short  of  a  hyena  could  have  ventured  upon  a 
Jaugh  there,  and  poor  John  was  anything  but  a  hyena  in  disposition. 
So  he  learned  to  withdraw  into  himself  and  paint  pictures  of  an 
ideal  future,  when  his  present  probation  should  result  in  a  pleasant 
and  plentiful  home  for  his  parents,  where  his  father  need  not  have 
to  complain  of  fatigue,  and  his  mother  should  sit  all  day  by  the 
front  window  in  a  rocking-chair,  never  doing  anything  unless 
she  chose  !  These  visions  consoled  him  under  many  things,  and 
became,  indeed,  the  substitute  for  hope,  in  his  mind,  as  similar  ones 
are  in  many  other  minds.  He  wondered  why  he  was  not  happier. 
His  employers  were  not  wnkind  to  him,  and  he  did  not  perceive 
that  negatives  have  very  little  to  do  with  our  happiness.  His 
labors  were  no  greater  than  they  had  been  at  home,  and  he  was 
better  dressed  and  better  fe^.  It  was  only  the  atmosphere  of  love 
that  he  missed,  yet  he  pined,  in  secret,  like  a  geranium  in  Greenland, 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  219 


and  became,  outwardly,  a  dull,  drudging  boy,  without  power  to  rise 
above  the  present  by  reaching  towards  the  future. 

Home  troubles,  too,  had  their  share  in  keeping  his  heart  in 
shadow.  His  father  failed  for  the  dozenth  time  in  some  scheme  for 
sudden  wealth,  and  several  of  the  better  pieces  of  furniture  had 
from  time  to  tirqe  mysteriously  disappeared  from  the  house,  leaving 
blank  spaces  no  less  in  the  imagination  of  the  children  than  in  the 
rooms  they  had  once  graced.  The  story  of  the  Iron  Shroud, — a 
prison  whose  walls  advanced  daily  inward,  lessening  the  walking  and 
breathing  space  of  the  wretch  within, — only  shadows  forth  the 
stealthy  but  unmistakeable  approach  of  absolute  poverty  in  a  family 
like  this ;  and  though  the  boy's  imagination  did  not  body  it  forth 
thus,  his  sense  of  the  truth  was  none  the  less  crushing  to  his  spirits. 
His  poor  mother  never  complained,  and,  indeed,  would  hardly 
answer  his  anxious  questions  ;  but  there  was  a  growing  sadness 
in  her  very  kisses,  which  often  sent  him  to  bed  half  choking 
with  desponding  thoughts,  the  most  prominent  of  which  was  that 
of  his  own  miserable  inefficiency  in  the  case.  A  drop  of  added 
bitterness  was  the  behavior  of  his  brother  Charles, — the  fathei's 
favorite  and  image, — a  handsome,  showy  boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen, 
who  ought  to  have  taken  John's  place  as  Mrs.  Todd's  aid  and 
comforter,  but  who  chose  rather  to  slip  away  to  play  in.  the  street, 
and  to  do  many  other  things  which  filled  the  tender  mother's  heart 
with  anxiety.  John  often  tried  to  talk  a  little  with  his  brother 
about  these  matters,  but  one  of  the  most  discouraging  things  in 
Charles's  character  was  a  sort  of  plausibility  or  facility,  which  led 
him  to  assent  to  all  general  propositions  in  morals,  while  he 
ingeniously  eluded  every  possible  application  of  any  to  his  own 
conduct.  He  never  got  angry  at  reproof, — a  sure  sign  that  he  had 
no  idea  of  profiting  by  it.  Truth  excites  passion  whenever  it 


220  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


touches  us  personally,  and  we  may  as  well  fire  paper  bullets  against 
a  stone  wall,  as  attempt  to  apply  it  to  a  heart  secretly  fortified  with 
evil  intention.  Charles's  real  determination  was  to  take  his 
pleasure  wherever  he  could  find  it,  while  his  instinctive  love  of 
character  impelled  him  equally  to  avoid  disgrace.  These  two  aims 
generally  lead  to  hypocrisy,  hardly  recognised  by  the  sinner 
himself  while  success  lasts  ;  and  Charles  Todd  was  as  yet  called  a 
fine  boy  by  almost  everybody,  though  he  was  giving  his  mother  and 
his  prematurely  careful  brother  many  a  private  heart-ache. 

After  John  had  worked  hard  for  a  year,  with  the  hope  of  earning 
some  increase  to  his  pittance,  he  was  discharged  with  very  slight 
warning,  his  employer  observing  that  he  was  *  rather  dull,'  which 
was  no  doubt  true.  A  bright-looking,  well-dressed  boy  took  his 
place  ;  and  he  set  about,  with  leaden  heart,  looking  for  another,  all 
the  harder  to  find  because  it  was  necessary  he  should  find  it. 
When  found  at  last,  it  proved  to  be  of  a  considerably  lower  tone 
than  the  first ; — a  smaller  establishment,  and  so  far  mortifying  to 
his  boyish  pride,  but  otherwise — that  is,  in  the  main  point  of  kindly 
interest  and  sympathy — very  similar.  And  this  was  the  general 
experience  of  four  or  five  years  or  so, — a  period  which  may  be  left 
to  the  reader's  imagination,  after  the  hints  we  have  given. 

Somewhere  during  this  period,  Mr.  Todd,  the  father,  fell  on  the 
ice  and  broke  his  leg  badly,  which  effectually  checked  his  specula- 
tive as  well  as  ambulative  powers,  and  changed  the  character  of  his 
wife's  toils  a  little  without  materially  increasing  them.  This  acci- 
dent, happening  just  after  John  had  obtained  an  increase  of  salary, 
which  raised  his  hopes  a  shade  or  two,  seemed  to  him  a  final  sen- 
tence as  to  any  chance  of  prosperity  in  his  unlucky  career.  His 
heart  sank  within  him  as  he  saw  his  father  established  on  the  old 
skeleton  sofa,  which  had  long  since  ceased  to  offer  any  temptation  to 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  221 

• 

lounging  habits,  and  his  mother  and  two  young  sisters  sitting  by  it, 
trying  to  earn  something  by  means  of  that  suicidal  implement,  the 
seamstress's  needle.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  feel  only  just 
enough  solicitude  on  their  account.  The  weight  of  his  pity  and 
tenderness  hung  on  his  hands  and  heart,  lessening  his  power  of  aid. 
The  too  present  idea  of  their  privations  led  him  to  reduce  even 
his  diet  below  the  just  measure  required  for  strength  and  courage  to 
a  constitution  like  his,  and  to  go  so  shabbily  dressed  as  to  lessen 
materially  his  chance  of  obtaining  better  wages.  He  passed  for  a 
good,  sober,  useful  fellow,  who  expected  but  little,  though  he  was 
willing  to  turn  his  hand  to  anything.  It  is  not  in  human  nature  to 
give  a  seedy,  threadbare-looking  man  as  much  as  we  would  give  a 
smartly  dressed  one,  under  the  same  circumstances — a  truth  not 
very  creditable  to  that  nature  of  ours,  and  worthy  of  some  examina- 
tion by  employers. 

Charles  now  began  to  take  the  lead  of  his  elder  brother  in  all 
respects.  His  animated  manner  and  frank-sounding  words  were 
very  prepossessing,  and  he  early  obtained  the  situation  of  book-agent, 
a  business  for  which  address  may  be  said  to  be  the  first,  second,  and 
third  requisite,  though  there  is  perhaps  a  fourth,  of  no  less  conse- 
quence. His  pay  was-  irregular,  and  his  outlay  for  dress  consider- 
able ;  and  although  he  continued  to  live  at  home,  he  professed  him- 
self unable  to  contribute  any  fixed  sum  to  the  family  means,  though 
he  occasionally  made  his  mother  or  sisters  a  present,  which  loomed 
much  larger  in  their  imaginations  than  the  constant  offerings  of 
John,  dropping  unperceived  like  the  dew,  and  performing  as  im- 
portant an  office.  Charles  always  wore  the  gay  and  fascinating  air 
of  success,  and  it  was  natural  for  a  mother  to  be  proud  of  him,  and 
to  hope  everything  from  him,  gladly  dismissing  the  misgivings  of 
the  past,  and  persuading  herself  that  Charles  had  a  good  heart, 


222  THE    EVENING  BOOK. 


after  all, — a  conclusion  to  which  mothers  are  prone  to  arrive  rather 
through  the  affections  than  the  judgment. 

John,  though  he  felt  tempted  to  envy  his  brother  the  facility  with 
which  he  acquired  the  reputation  of  having  a  good  heart,  had  too 
good  a  one  of  his  own  to  view  his  prosperity  with  jaundiced  eyes 
He  was  proud  of  him,  too,  for  there  is  something  bewitching  in  per- 
sonal advantages,  say  what  we  will. 

Yes,  there  is  something  bewitching  about  them,  with  which  rea- 
son has  little  to  do.  John  had  already  experienced  this,  for  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  a  pretty  girl  of  the  neighborhood, — an  orphan 
who  lived  with  relatives  not  much  disposed  to  be  kind  to  her, — so 
said  common  report.  Susan  Bartlett  had  a  delicate,  appealing  kind 
of  beauty,  which  seemed  quite  as  much  the  result  of  sensibility  as  of 
complexion  and  outline.  The  family  with  whom  she  found  a  home 
were  rough,  coarse  people,  among  whom  her  air  of  natural  refine- 
ment appeared  to  great  advantage.  She  was  evidently  not  com- 
fortable in  her  position,  a  circumstance  nearly  as  attractive  as  her 
beauty,  to  one  who  fancied  himself  the  *  predestined  child  of  care.' 
If  she  had  looked  happy,  he  would  never  have  dared  to  love  her, 
but  her  pensive  smile  encouraged  him,  and  the  gentle,  half-grateful 
air  with  which  she  received  his  attentions,  so  "excited  his  languid  self- 
complacency,  that  he  had  occasionally  a  gleam  of  hope  that  he  might 
be  somebody  to  somebody  yet.  In  short,  the  first  rose-tint  that  fell 
upon  his  life-stream  was  from  the  dawn  of  this  tender  passion ;  and 
Susan's  beauty,  lighting  up  her  lover's  clouds,  called  forth  many  a 
golden  shimmering  air-castle,  all  ready  to  be  drawn  down  to  earth 
and  turned  into  a  comfortable  dwelling  some  day. 

For  an  hour  or  more  after  Susan  had  shyly  owned  that  she  re- 
turned his  affection,  John  wondered  that  he  had  ever  fancied  himself 
doomed  to  ill-fortune. * What  was  the  cold,  harsh  world  to  him ! 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  223 


Susan,  like  himself,  had  been  used  to  straitened  circumstances,  and 
she  was  willing  to  share  his  lot,  be  it  what  it  might.  It  was  not 
long  before  he  was  forced  to  remember  that  a  lot  may  be  too  nar- 
row to  be  shared  with  anybody,  but  his  new  talisman  did  a  good 
deal  to  keep  off  the  foul  fiend  Despondency,  so  that  his  pleasure 
was  not  turned  into  pain  much  more  than  half  the  time. 

Mrs.  Todd  felt  appalled,  for  the  moment,  when  she  was  told 
of  John's  engagement.  Not  only  did  the  condition  of  the  family 
demand  more  than  all  the  aid  the  dutiful  son  could  give  it,  but  to 
the  cooler  eyes  of  the  mother,  Susan's  temperament  and  habits  were 
ill-calculated  to  promote  the  happiness  of  a  poor  and  very  sensitive 
man.  Mrs.  Todd  thought  her  indolent  and  inefficient ;  wanting  in 
force  of-character,  and  likely  to  take  almost  any  coloring  from  those 
about  her ;  but  she  wisely  said  nothing,  for  the  matter  was  settled, 
and  she  could  only  grieve  her  son  without  the  hope  of  benefit- 
Susan  was  very  sweet  and  amiable  in  the  family,  and  much  a 
favorite  with  Mr.  Todd,  whose  dull  hours  were  considerably  light- 
ened by  the  presence  of  a  pretty  girlr  who  would  sometimes  read  to 
him  or  entertain  him  with  the  gossip  of  the  hour.  Charles,  too, 
was  delighted  with  his  sister-in-law  that  was  to  be,  and  as  he  had 
much  more  leisure  than  John,  often  took  his  brother's  place  as  her 
escort,  or  called  upon  her  as  John's  proxy  when  he  was  necessarily 
detained. 

This  period  of  our  hero's  life  was  like  a  delicious  Indian  summer, 
when  the  atmosphere  is  full  of  golden  haze,  which  throws  a  soft 
illusion  over  everything,  hiding  the  bareness  of  reality,  and  bestow- 
ing a  happy  indistinctness  upon  distant  objects.  Such  seasons  are 
never  long  ones.  The  frosts  of  truth  clear  the  air  and  force  us  to 
think  upon  the  needs  of  wintry  life,  if  we  would  not  wake  up  to  a 
distress  which  no  illusion  can  gild.  No  man  could  be  more  sincerely 


224  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


in  love  than  John  Todd ;  but,  in  this  case  as  in  others,  his  goodness 
stood  in  the  way  of  his  happiness.  A  selfish  man  would  have  been 
amply  satisfied  with  the  pleasure  of  being  beloved  by  the  woman  of 
his  choice ;  but  the  good  son  could  not  long  so  forget  his  old  duties 
as  not  to  miss  in  Susan  some  of  the  qualities  which  would  have 
made  her  a  comfort  to  his  mother.  His  own  love  was  so  generous, 
so  entire ;  his  heart  beat  so  tenderly  for  all  that  could  interest  Su- 
san, that  it  was  hardly  in  human  nature  not  to  feel  some  disappoint- 
ment at  finding  in  her  no  corresponding  interest  in  those  so  dear  to 
him.  Susan  evidently  felt  that  her  position  was  properly  that  of  an 
idol,  which  nobody  can  expect  to  see  come  down  from  its  pedestal 
and  mingle  on  equal  terms  with  its  worshippers.  Not  that  her 
manner  was  arrogant  or  assuming ;  that  was  always  sweet  and 
gentle.  It  was  rather  what  she  omitted  than  what  she  did,  that 
brought  John  to  the  sad  conviction  that  her  affections  had  no  ten- 
dency to  be  led  by  his,  and  that  he  had  not  succeeded  in  winning  a 
daughter's  love  for  his  mother  by  giving  away  so  largely  of  his  own. 
So  fate  pursued  him.  The  golden  clouds  changed  to  purple,  and 
the  purple  to  lead-color,  in  his  mind  ;  and  he  felt  more  keenly  than 
ever  that  he  was  doomed  to  be  unhappy,  since  love,  which  had 
seemed  for  a  time  to  make  every  sad  thought  absurd,  had  failed  to 
satisfy  him,  as  it  seemed  to  do  other  men.  John  did  not  know 
how  easily  other  men  are  satisfied — sometimes. 

Home  affairs,  meanwhile,  certainly  had  brightened  a  little. 
Somehow,  unaccountably,  the  family  had  not  become  any  poorer 
for  Mr.  Todd's  long  illness.  Much  kindness  had  been  brought  out 
by  the  circumstance,  and  friends  had  come  forward  in  a  way  which 
materially  aided  Mrs.  Todd  without  lowering  her  self-respect. 
While  a  man  like  Mr.  Todd  remains  at  the  head  of  affairs,  there  is 
always  a  kind  of  simmering  indignation  among  the  friends  and 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  225 


relatives  of  the  family,  which  prevents  their  showing  the  sympathy 
they  cannot  but  feel  for  the  suffering  members.  But  when  he  is 
fairly  out  of  the  way,  cempassion  claims  its  natural  course,  as  in  this 
case,  A  teacher  in  the  neighborhood  took  two  of  the  girls  as  free 
pupils,  insisting  that  she  could  do  so  without  the  least  cost  to  herself, 
— a  mode  of  Christian  charity  more  practised  by  that  most  laborious 
and  ill-paid  class  than  the  world  at  all  suspects.  Physicians,  too, 
discerning  the  true  state  of  things,  either  forgot  to  send  their  bills  at 
all,  or  made  merely  nominal  charges,  as  they  are  doing  every  day  in 
similar  cases,  with  a  liberality  for  which  they  get  little  credit. »  In 
short,  even  John  was  obliged  to  own  to  himself  that  a  seeming  mis- 
fortune may  have  'its  bright  side,  though  the  conviction  did  not 
remain  present  with  him  constantly  enough  to  make  head  against 
the  bad  habit  of  low  spirits. 

Charles,  meanwhile,  was  dashing  away  as  usual,  handsome,  gay, 
and  confident ;  now  and  then  sending  home  some  showy,  useless 
article  to  his  mother  or  sisters,  and  sometimes,  though  more  rarely, 
throwing  money  into  their  laps,  which  seemed  doubled  in  value  by 
the  grace  with  which  it  was  given.  There  was  no  coming  at  a  dis- 
tinct notion  of  his  affairs,  for  a  book-agency  naturally  fluctuates  a 
good  deal,  and  refers  to  '  luck*  more  than  some  other  kinds  of  busi- 
ness. But  he  always  seemed  to  have  leisure  for  visiting,  and  money 
for  amusements,  so  his  mother  fought  resolutely  against  intrusive 
fears  that  there  might  be  something  hollow  in  this  prosperity.  The 
elder  brother  was  less  easily  satisfied,  for  he  knew  rather  more  of 
Charles's  habits. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  fears  were  justified.     Charles  came  to 
the  store  one  day,  and  with  an  appearance  of  great  agitation  asked 
to  see  his  brother  apart 
10* 


226  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


'  What  is  the  matter  ?'  said  John,  whose  imagination  rushed 
homewards  at  once,  prognosticating  evil  to  the  loved  ones  there. 

'  I've  got  myself  into  trouble,'  said  the  other  ;  and  as  he  had  done 
this  several  times  before,  his  brother  felt  relieved  to  find  it  no  worse. 

But  further  explanation  showed  him  that  the  present  was  no  ordi- 
nary affair. 

4 1  have  lost  a  sum  of  money  belonging  to  our  firm — '  began 
Charles. 

'Lost!  how  lost?' 

'  Oh  !  I've  been  robbed,  but  'tis  a  long  story,  and  the  question  is 
now  how  to  get  out  of  the  scrape.  It  is  only  two  hundred  dollars  !' 

'  Only  two  hundred  dollars  !'  said  John  aghast,  for  he  had  not 
two  hundred  cents  to  call  his  own. 

t   *  What  is  to  be  done  ?     Will  not  your  firm  wait  till  you  have 
had  time  to  repay  it  by  degrees  ?' 

*  Wait !  they  must  never  know  it !     I  should  be  ruined  for  ever 
if  they  did.     Can't  you  frelp  me  ?     I  could  pay  you  by  degrees, 
you  know  !     You  can  get  an  advance  on  your  salary.     You  always 
stand  well  with  your  employers  ;  do  ask,  that's  a  good  fellow,  and  I 
will  promise  that  this  shall  be  the  last  time  that  I  will  ever  trouble 
you.' 

*  But  you  do  not  consider  that  this  would  take  the  very  bread  out 
of  mother's  mouth,  and  the  children's.     You  know  they  cannot  live 
a  week  without  what  I  bring  them.     You  must  find  some  other 
resource.     Surely  your  firm  must  have  some  confidence  in  you  after 
so  long  a  connexion.' 

'  Oh,  they  are  stiff  old  fellows,  and  they've  been  prejudiced  against 
me  by  one  or  two  little  matters,  such  as  happen  to  every  young 
man.  You  are  my  only  hope,  for  I  will  never  survive  disgrace.' 

It  is  needless  to  recount  the  arguments  of  a  man  without  prin- 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  227 


ciple,  who  knew  his  brother's  goodness  of  heart  to  be  greater  than 
his  firmness.  After  a  very  long  talk,  in  the  course  of  which  John 
ascertained  that  the  'robbery'  was  only  the  form  under  which 
Charles  chose  to  represent  a  loss  at  the  gaming-table,  and  which  he 
professed  to  believe  the  result  of  fraud,  the  matter  ended  as  Charles 
knew  it  would — in  John's  going,  with  shame  and  confusion  of  face, 
to  his  employers,  and  asking  an  advance  of  the  required  sum.  The 
distress  with  which  he  did  it  was  most  evident,  and  the  reluctance 
with  which  his  request  was  granted  quite  as  unmistakeable ;  but 
when  he  met  his  brother  at  the  appointed  time  with  the  money,  one 
would  have  hardly  supposed  Charles  to  be  the  obliged  party,  so 
easily  did  he  make  light  of  the  whole  affair. 

'  The  old  hunkers  !"  he  said,  "  it  will  do  'em  good  to  bleed  a  little. 
After  slaving  for  them  so  long,  it  would  be  pretty,  indeed,  to  be 
refused  such  a  trifle  !  You  let  them  impose  upon  you,  John  !  If 
you  only  had  a  little  more  spirit  they  would  treat  you  better.  If 
our  old  fellows  had  been  as  niggardly  with  me,  I  should  have  left 
them  long  ago  ;  but  they  know  better !' 

When  John,  not  attempting  to  defend  himself  against  the  charge 
of  wanting  spirit,  only  desired  to  know  what  were  his  brother's  pros- 
pects of  refunding  the  money,  for  want  of  which  the  family  at  home 
must  suffer,  Charles  talked  grandly,  but  vaguely,  of  some  Californian 
propositions  that  had  been  made  to  him,  saying  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  should  accept  them  or  not,  but,  at  any  rate,  he  should 
pay  the  money  very  shortly. 

*  Do  not  wait,'  said  John,  *  for  any  considerable  part  of  it.  Re- 
member poor  mother,  and  all  her  privations  and  difficulties.  Father 
requires  every  day  more  and  more  care  and  labor ;  for  you  know  he 
is  nearly  helpless,  and  it  takes  quite  one  person's  time  to  nurse  him. 


228  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 

Pray  hand  me,  from  time  to  time,  every  dollar  you  can  spare  ;  for 
I  foresee  much  trouble  from  this  miserable  business.' 

*  Oh,  you  are  always  foreseeing  trouble/  said  Charles,  gaily.  i  You're 
famous  for  that.     Why  don't  you  look  on  the  bright  side,  as  I  do  ! 
The  world  owes  us  a  living,  at  least.     I'm  sure  it  does  me,  and  I 
mean  to  have  it,  too  !     I've  got  half  a  dozen  plans  in  my  head.' 

'  I  don't  like  the  California  project  very  well,'  said  John,  as  his 
brother  was  about  to  leave  him. 

*  O  ;  perhaps  you'll  like  it  better  by  and  by !'  was  the  reply  :  and 
the  brothers  separated. 

John  went  home  with  a  heavy  heart ;  but  he  was  used  to  a  heavy 
heart,  so  he  said  nothing  of  what  had  passed.  After  tea,  he  called 
for  Susan,  who  had  engaged  to  go  with  him  to  some  lecture,  but 
found  her  ill  with  a  headache.  Her  aunt  said  she  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  must  not  be  disturbed  !  so  John  went  home,  and  went  to  bed 
too,  not  feeling  very  sorry  to  be  quite  alone,  that  he  might  reflect, 
undisturbed,  upon  the  state  of  affairs.  He  was  far  from  feeling 
satisfied  with  himself  for  having  yielded  to  Charles's  passionate  and 
selfish  importunity,  what  was  absolutely  necessary  to  the  support  of 
the  family ;  and  he  could  see  no  way  of  right,  except  that  of  some 
new  self-sacrifice,  which  should  make  good  the  deficiency,  at  least-  in 
part.  After  turning  over  in  his  mind  every  possible  way  of  earning 
mony  at  extra  hours,  and  saving  it  by  excessive  abstinence,  he  fell 
asleep,  undecided  between  an  evening  class  in  writing,  and  the  car- 
riership  of  an  early  morning  paper,  which  would  furnish  him  with 
employment  before  daylight,  and  allow  him  to  reach  the  stope  at  the 
appointed  hour.  He  rather  thought  he  should  try  both. 

The  next  morning  his  father  was  worse,  so  much  worse,  that  he 
would  hardly  have  felt  justified  in  leaving  his  mother,  if  the  transac- 
tion of  the  day  before  had  not  made  it  absolutely  necessary  that  he 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  229 


should  appear  at  the  store.  He  looked  so  haggard  and  care-worn^ 
that  his  employers  thought  he  must  be  ill,  and  recommended  that 
he  should  go  home,  which  he  gladly  prepared  to  do,  mentioning 
his  father's  dangerous  condition.  Just  as  he  was  locking  his  desk, 
a  note  came  from  his  mother,  desiring  to  see  him  immediately ; 
and  he  ran  home,  hardly  expecting  to  find  his  father  still  alive. 

But  there  was  no  change  for  the  worse,  yet  his  mother  was  pale 
as  ashes,  and  trembling  all  over. 

'  Oh,  John  ?'  she  said,  and  that  was  all. 

'  What  is  it,  mother — what  can  it  be  T 

'  Susan — ' 

'  Dead !' 

*  No,  not  dead !'  and  Mrs.  Todd  held  up  a  letter. 

'  Read  it,  mother,'  said  John,  in  a  strange,  quiet  voice,  as  if  he 
was  in  a  magnetic  sleep,  and  could  see  the  contents  through  the 
paper. 

And  Mrs.  Todd  read : 

4 1  hardly  dare  take  the  pen  to  write  to  you,  John,  yet  it  seems 
better  than  leaving  you  without  a  word.  I  shall  not  try  to  excuse 
myself,  but  I  feel  sure  I  should  never  have  been  happy,  or  have 
made  you  happy,  if  I  had  kept  to  our  engagement  only  for  shame's 
sake.  I  did  love  you  at  the  beginning  ;  I  was  not  deceitful  then  ; 
but  afterwards  I  learned  to  love  another  better,  and  for  this  you  are 
partly  to  blame.  You  are  too  grave  and  serious  for  me  :  I  have 
not  spirits  enough  for  us  both.  I  always  felt  down-hearted  after  we 
had  been  together,  although  you  were  always  so  kind  and  good. 
Do  not  fret  about  this  ;  fall  in  love  with  somebody  else — somebody 
that  is  gay  and  light-hearted.  I  know  I  am  running  a  great  risk, 
and  very  likely  shall  be  sorry  that  I  ever  left  a  man  so  good  as  you 


230  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


are  for  one  who  is  more  pleasant,  but  not  any  better,  not  so  good, 
perhaps.  I  would  have  told  you  sooner,  but  could  not  make  up  my 
mind.  God  bless  you  and  farewell. 

*  SUSAN.' 

*  Another !  another  !'  said  John ;  *  what  other  T     Nobody  spoke. 
There  was  a  sort  of  shuddering  guess  in  the  bottom  of  the  heart  of 
several  of  the  family,  but  no  one  could  endure  to  suggest  it. 

*  Nobody  knows,'  said  Mrs.  Todd ;  '  Susan  left  the  house  alone, 
they  say.' 

John  went  to  his  own  room,  and  locked  himself  in  for  some 
hours.  In  the  evening  a  gentleman  called,  and  asked  to  see  him 
alone.  It  was  one  of  the  firm  in  whose  employ  Charles  had  been 
for  some  years. 

'  Have  you  been  aware  of  your  brother's  intention  of  going  to 
California  ?'  said  Mr. . 

*  To  California !     No — yes — that  is,  I  have  heard  him  say  he  had 
had  offers  to  go  there.' 

*  You  do  not  know  then,  that  he  sailed  in  the  packet  of  to-day  ? 
John  could  but  repeat  the  words,  half  stupified. 

'Did  not  the  family  know  of  his  marriage?  He  was  married 
just  before  he  went  on  board,  as  we  understand.' 

All  was  now  clear  enough  as  to  Susan ;  but  John  had  yet  to 
learn  that,  instead  of  having  lost  money  at  play,  as  he  pretended, 
Charles  had  received  a  considerable  sum  for  the  house  within  a  day 
or  two,  and  only  borrowed  of  his  brother  to  increase  his  means  for 
the  elopement. 

That  evening  Mr.  Todd  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  at  midnight  he 
died. 

It  is  recorded  of  one  of  the  heroic  Covenanters  who  were  sub- 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  231 


jected  to  the  hideous  punishment  of  the  boot — which  consisted  in 
enclosing  the  leg  in  an  iron  case  and  driving  hi  a  wedge  upon  the 
bone — that  after  the  second  stroke  upon  the  wedge  he  was  observed 
to  laugh,  which  naturally  excited  the  curiosity  of  those  whose  busi- 
ness it  was  to  torture  him.  '  I  laugh,'  said  he,  '  to  think  I  could 
have  been  so  foolish  as  to  dread  the  second  blow,  since  the  first 
destroyed  all  sensation.* 

It  was  not  long  before  John  Todd  was  aware  of  a  sort  of  cheer- 
fulness arising  from  the  sense  that  he  had  reached  the  extreme 
point  of  misery.  It  acted  as  a  tonic  upon  his  mind,  as  the  heart- 
burn of  acidity  is  relieved  by  lemonjuice.  He  felt  more  like  a  man 
than  he  had  ever  done  in  his  life.  This  was  proved,  even  to  his 
own  astonishment,  when  he  found  himself  stating  his  position  to  his 
employers,  from  whom  he  had  just  borrowed  a  large  sum  (for  him), 
and  requesting  of  them  a  farther  advance.  This  they  granted  with 
alacrity,  for  he  had  asked  it  with  honest  confidence. 

'  We  should  be  glad  to  see  you  as  soon  as  convenient ; — we  have 
something  to  say  to  you,'  said  the  elder  merchant. 

Two  days  before,  this  request  would  have  made  John's  very  heart 
quake,  for  his  timidity  would  have  prompted  prognostics  of  evil ; 
but  now  he  felt  bold  and  strong,  and  promised  readily  to  be  at  the 
store  as  soon  as  he  could  leave  home.  He  began  to  think  it  rather 
pleasant  to  be  in  despair. 

After  the  funeral  was  over,  and  the  succeeding  blank  pressed  hard 

upon  him,  he  bethought  him  of  the  request  of  Messrs. .  On 

the  way  he  had  a  return  of  his  old  feelings,  and  began  to  paint  to 
himself  the  horrors  of  being  turned  off;  but  he  soon  drove  them 
away  with  the  thought  that  there  were  many  more  places  in  the 
world,  and  his  own  chance  as  good  as  another  man's. 

The  object  of  the  business  conference , was  to  propose  to  John 


232  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


Todd  a  share  in  the  concern,  the  proprietors  not  being  of  the  class 
with  whom  modesty  hides  merit.  They  had  observed  in  him  both 
industry  and  ability,  joined  with  the  most  transparent  honesty  and 
truth  of  character,  and  they  were  wise  enough  to  wish  to  secure 
him.  Happily  good  spirits  are  not  so  much  missed  in  a  counting- 
house  as  in  some  other  places. 

The  care  of  the  family  now  devolving  more  obviously  upon  him, 
he  removed  them  into  a  smaller  but  more  comfortable  house  than 
had  suited  his  father's  notions,  and  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  his 
mother  relieved  from  the  more  harassing  portion  of  her  cares  and 
labors,  and  at  liberty  to  rest  sometimes,  which  was  a  new  thing  in 
her  overdriven  life.  His  own  private  troubles  he  never  mentioned, 
and  the  subject  was  dropped  by  common  consent,  though  the  woe- 
worn  face  of  Mi's.  Todd  was,  in  spite  of  herself,  a  perpetual  memento 
of  the  whole  sad  past. 

At  the  end  of  some  eight  or  ten  months,  news  came  from  San 
Francisco  that  Charles  had  died  of  the  disease  of  the  country,  just  as 
he  was  about  to  be  seized  on  the  charge  of  embezzlement.  John 
thought  at  once  of  Susan,  unworthy  as  she  was,  and  fearing  she 
might  suffer  want  among  strangers,  would  fain  have  urged  her 
return ;  but  he  resisted  the  impulse  of  a  tenderness  that  might 
have  been  weakness,  and  only  wrote  to  a  friend  in  California  to  see 
that  his  brother's  widow  did  not  lack  the  ordinary  comforts.  In 
spite  of  this  wise  resolution  his  mind  was  a  good  deal  disturbed  by 
the  image  of  his  first  love,  until  Susan  fortunately  broke  the  spell 
by  marrying  at  San  Francisco  an  emigrant  of  no  immaculate  fame. 

Tins  completed  John's  recovery,  and  made  a  man  of  him.  As 
he  had  at  first  loved  Susan  from  pity — a  wretched  reason  for  a  life- 
love — so  he  might  have  loved  her  again  from  pity,  since  he  ascribed 
her  aberration  rather  to  weakness  than  to  deliberate  treachery.  Now 


THE  DARK  SIDE.  233 


he  saw  her  as  she  was,  a  poor,  vacillating,  selfish  creature,  devoid  of 
every  desirable  quality, — unless  we  reckon  as  such  a  quiet  and  gen- 
tle manner,  the  result  of  temperament,  not  principle ;  not  the 
woman  to  whom  a  man  of  tolerable  sense  could  safely  intrust  his 
happiness  and  honor.  The  recollection  of  Charles  was  bitter, 
indeed ;  but  his  career  had  borne  its  legitimate  fruit,  and  there  was 
mitigation  in  the  thought  that  the  disgrace  of  a  public  trial  and 
imprisonment  had  been  spared  them  all. 

John's  complete  restoration  was  not  rapidly  accomplished,  but 
like  other  recoveries  from  typhus,  subject  to  relapses.  But  he 
never  fell  back  entirely.  Braced  by  misfortune,  his  nerves  were 
strung  for  lesser  ills,  and  his  unhappy  habit  of  self-depreciation — 
the  most  dangerous  form  of  egotism,  since  it  borrows  the  specious 
semblance  of  humility,  though  it  is  often  nothing  less  than  rank 
pride — was  cured  by  the  testimony  of  experience.  The  happiness 
of  being  everything  to  his  mother  and  her  children  was  of  itself 
healing  to  his  wounded  self-love,  and  in  due  time  he  married  a 
woman  very  different  from  Susan  Bartlett,  since  her  attractions  were 
her  own,  and  not  those  of  circumstance.  John  Todd  finished  by 
owning  himself  happy. 

We  have  all  this  time  said  no  word  of  our  hero's  religion,  because 
we  do  not  think  a  man's  religion  worth  speaking  of,  so  long  as  he  is 
determined  to  be  his  own  Providence,  and  refuses  to  intrust  the 
main  web  of  his  life  to  the  weaving  of  the  Unerring  Hand.  In 
truth,  wilh  all  his  goodness  it  was  only  the  occurrences  we  havo 
narrated  that  taught  him  the  wholesome  lesson  of  dependence  and 
submission,  and  convinced  him  that  if  he  made  his  happiness  depend 
upon  freedom  from  misfortune,  ho  must  go  through  life  under  a 
cloud.  He  perceived  that  he  had  taken  too  much  upon  himself  $ 
and  his  view  of  his  own  private  responsibility  for  everything  that 


234  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


could  possibly  befall  himself  and  his  friends,  was  much  modified, 
without  any  diminution  of  sensibility  or  efficiency.  And  here  let 
us  leave  our  exemplar,  praying  the  reader's  patience  and  pardon  if 
John  Todd  has  seemed  to  them  only  an  essay  in  disguise. 


COURTING  BY   PROXY. 

A    TALE    OF    NEW   YORK. 

YOUNG  MR.  ALONZO  ROMEO  RUSH  was  dreadfully  in  love — as, 
indeed,  which  of  us  is  not  ?  Everybody  has  a  passion,  though, 
fortunately,  the  objects  are  infinitely  various.  Mr.  Alonzo  was 
in  love  with  himself  for  a  year  or  two  after  he  took  leave  of 
childhood  and  milk-and-water  ;  b,ut  after  that  his  grandmamma 
told  him  he  ought  to  marry,  and  he  forthwith  fell  violently  in  love 
with  his  future  wife,  and  vowed  to  allow  himself  no  rest  till  he  had 
found  her.  This  may  be  termed  '  love  in  the  abstract,'  which, 
as  we  shall  see,  is  not  without  its  perplexities. 

Mr.  Alonzo  was  a  darling  boy,  an  orphan,  and  the  heir  of  a  good 
Knickerbocker  fortune.  His  grandmamma  was  his  guardian,  in 
a  sense  beyond  the  cold,  legal  meaning  of  the  term.  She  picked 
the  bones  out  of  his  fish,  and  reminded  him  oi  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  during  all  the  years  of  his  tenderer  boyhood ;  and, 
until  he  was  full  fourteen  years  old, -he  slept  in  her  room,  and  had 
his  face  washed  by  her  own  hands,  in  warm  water,  every  morning. 
Even  after  he  called  himself  a  man,  she  buttered  his  muffins  and 
tucked  up  his  bed-clothes,  with  a  solicitude  above  all  praise. 


236  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


Thanks  to  her  care  and  attention,  he  reached  the  age  of  twenty-one 
in  safety,  excepting  that  he  was  very  subject  to  colds,  which 
alarmed  his  venerable  relative  extremely ;  and  excepting  also  that 
he  showed  an  unaccountable  liking  for  the  society  of  a  little 
tailoress  who  had  always  made  his  clothes  during  his  minority. 

But  now,  as  we  have  said,  he  was  dreadfully  in  love ;  and  what 
made  his  situation  the  more  puzzling  was  that  his  grandmamma,  in 
her  various  charges,  had  entirely  omitted  to  specify  the  lady  to 
whom  his  devotions  ought  to  be  paid.  She  even  urged  him  to 
choose  for  himself.  What  a  responsibility  ! 

'  Only  remember,  Alonzo,'  said  the  good  lady,  c  that  you  will 
never  be  happy  with  a  girl  that  does  not  like  muffins,  and  that  it  is 
as  easy  to  love  a  rich  girl  as  a  poor  one.' 

*  Yes,'  responded  Mr.  Alonzo,  with  rather  an  absent  air ;  '  yes, 
and  as  to  muffins — '  here  he  sunk  into  a  reverie. 

*  Grandma ! '  exclaimed  the  darling,  after  some  pause,  '  couldn't 
•you  ask  Parthenia  Blinks  here  to  tea  ? ' 

1  Certainly,  my  dear,'  said  the  good  lady,  and  she  rang  the 
bell  at  once,  preparatory  to  the  making  of  several  kinds  of  cake,  and 
various  other  good  things. 

The  invitation  was  duly  sent,  and  as  duly  accepted  by  Miss 
Parthenia  Blinks,  who  found  it  politic  always  to  accept  an  invitation, 
that  she  might  do  as  she  pleased  when  the  time  came — a  practice 
fully  adopted  by  many  fashionables. 

The  time  did  come,  and  there  was  the  tea-table,  set  out  with  four 
kinds  of  preserves,  arranged  with  the  most  exact  quadrangularity ; 
in  the  centre  a  large  basket  heaped  with  cake,  and  at  the  sides  two 
mountains  of  toast  and  muffins  ;  tea,  coffee,  and  various  accessories 
completing  the  prospect. 

The  fine  old  Knickerbocker  parlor  was  in  its  primest  order,  every 


COURTING  BY  PROXY.  237 


chair  standing  exactly  parallel  with  its  brother  ;  the  tea-kettle 
singing  on  its  chafing-dish,  the  cat  purring  on  the  hearth-rug.  Two 
sofas,  covered  with  needle- work,  were  drawn  up  to  the  fire,  and  the 
mandarins  on  the  chimney-piece  nodded  at  each  other  and  at 
the  pink  and  azure  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  which  ornamented 
the  space  between  them.  Mr.  Alonzo  Romeo  Rush  stood  before 
the  glass,  giving  the  last  twirl  to  an-  obstinate  side-lock,  which,  in 
spite  of  persuasion  and  pomatum,  would  obey  that  fate  called  a 
cow-lick. 

An  impetuous  ring  at  the  door.  The  little  tailoress,  who  had 
been  giving  a  parting  glance  at  her  own  handy-work,  slipped  out  of 
the  room,  sighing  softly ;  and  Aionzo  and  his  grandmamma  seated 
themselves  on  the  opposite  sofas,  for  symmetry's  sake. 

A  billet  in  a  gilded  envelope.     Miss  Parthenia  Blinks'  regrets. 

'  What  an  impudent  thing ! '  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  toss  of 
her  cap.  (We  do  not  know  whether  she  meant  the  act  or  the 
young  lady.)  '  But  come,  my  dear,  you  shall  eat  the  muffins,  and 
never  mind  her.  The  next  time  I  ask  Miss  Blinks  it  will  do 
her  good,  I  know.' 

Mr.  Alonzo,  nothing  daunted  by  this  mortifying  slight,  turned 
his  thoughts  next  to  Miss  Justina  Cuypers,  a  young  lady  who 
resided  with  two  maiden  aunts  in  a  house  which  had  suffered 
but  little  change  since  the  Revolution.  The  first  step  which 
suggested  itself  to  the  darling,  was  to  ask  Miss  Cuypers  to  ride ; 
but  to  reach  this  golden  apple  the  aunts  must  be  propitiated, 
and  therefore  it  was  judged  best  that  grandmamma  should  make 
one  of  the  party,  in  order  that  none  of  the  proprieties  might  1>e 
violated.  Alonzo  was  charioteer,  but,  as  he  was  not  much  accus- 
tomed to  driving,  his  grandmamma  felt  it  her  duty  to  take  the 
reins  out  of  his  hands  very  frequently,  besides  giving  him  many 


238  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


directions  as  to  which  rein  he  ought  to  pull,  in  meeting  the 
numerous  vehicles  which  they  encountered  on  the  Harlem  road. 
Whether  from  the  excess  of  his  passion  for  Miss  Cuypers,  who 
never  spoke  once  the  whole  way,  or  whether  from  the  confusion 
incident  to  reiterated  instructions,  poor  Mr.  Alonzo  did  finish  the 
drive  by  an  overturn,  which  did  not  kill  anybody,  but  spoiled  the 
young  lady's  new  bonnet,  and  covered  her  admirer  with  mud  and 
mortification. 

The  failure  of  these  kindly  attempts  of  his  grandmamma  to  save 
him  the  trouble  of  getting  a  wife,  taught  Mr.  Alonzo  a  lesson.  He 
drew  the  astute  inference  that  old  ladies  were  not  good  proxies 
in  all  cases.  He  even  thought  of  taking  the  matter  into  his 
own  hands,  and  with  this  view  it  was  not  long  before  he  set  out, 
like  a  prince  in  a  fairy  tale,  to  seek  his  fortune.  , 

The  first  house  he  came  to — that  is  to  say,  the  one  to  which  his 
footsteps  turned  most  naturally — was  one  belonging  to  a  distant 
connection  of  his  grandmamma,  a  lady  whose  ancestor  came  over 
with  Hendrik  Hudson,  or,  as  the  family  chroniclers  insisted,  a  little 
before.  Miss  Alida  Van  Der  Benschoten,  the  daughter  of  this 
lady — a  fresh  sprout  from  the  time-honored  tree — might  have  been 
known  to  Alonzo,  but  that  he  had  always  hidden  himself  when  her 
mamma  brought  her  to  pay  her  annual  visit  to  his  grandmamma. 
She  resided  with  her  mother,  one  ancient  sister,  and  two  great  rude 
brothers,  on  the  borders  of  the  city,  in  one  of  those  tempting 
ruralities  called  cottages,  built  of  brick,  three  stories  high,  and 
furnished  with  balconies  and  verandahs  of  cast  iron,  all  very 
agricultural  indeed,  as  a  certain  lady  said  of  a  green  door.  The 
idea  of  Miss  Alida  being  once  entertained,  the  shrubberies  about  the 
Van  Der  Benschoten  cottage,  consisting  of  three  altheas,  a  privet 
hedge,  and  a  Madeira  vine,  seemed  to  invite  .a  Romeo,  and  our 


COURTING  BY  PROXY.  239 


hero  resolved  to  open  his  first  act  with  a  balcony  scene.  Not  that 
he  had  a  speech  ready,  for  if  he  had  he  would  have  delivered  it  in 
the  parlor  ;  but  he  had  heard  much  of  the  power  of  sweet  sounds, 
and  conceived  the  idea  of  trying  them  upon  the  heart  of  Miss 
Alida  before  he  ventured  upon  words,  as  Hannibal,  (wasn't  it?) 
having  rocks  to  soften,  tried  vinegar  before  pickaxes.  Having  often 
encountered  bands  of  music  in  the  streets  at  night — or  rather  in 
the  evening,  for  his  grandmamma  never  allowed  him  to  be  out  after 
ten — he  concluded  the  business  of  these  patrols  to  be,  serenading  ; 
and,  making  great  exertions  to  find  one  of  the  most  powerful 
companies,  he  engaged  their  leader  to  be  in  full  force  before 
Mrs.  Van  Der  Benschoten's  door  on  a  certain  evening,  resolved 
himself  to  lie  perdu,  in  a  convenient  spot,  ready  to  speak  if  the  young 
lady  should  appear  on  the  balcony,  as  he  did  not  doubt  she  would. 
The  Coryphaeus  of  the  band  was  true  to  his  promise,  and  he  and 
his  followers  had  played  with  all  their  might  for  half  an  hour  or  so, 
when,  observing  no  demonstration  from  the  house,  and  feeling 
rather  chilly,  they  consulted  their  employer  as  to  the  propriety  of 
continuing. 

'  Oh  !  go  on,  go  on,'  whispered  Mr.  Alonzo ;  '  she  is  n't  waked  up 
yet !'  (The  youth  understood  the  true  object  of  a  serenade.)  '  Play 
away  till  you  hear  something.' 

And,  on  the  word,  Washington's  March  aroused  the  weary 
echoes,  if  not  Miss  Alida. 

This  new  attack  certainly  was  not  in  vain.  A  window  was  softly 
opened,  and  as  the  band,  inspired  by  this  sign  of  life,  threw  new 
vigor  into  their  instrumentation,  a  copious  shower  of  boots,  boot- 
jacks, billets  of  wood,  and  various  other  missiles,  untuned  the 
performers,  who,  in  spite  of  the  martial  spirit  breathed  but  just 
before,  all  ran  away  forthwith. 


240  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


Mr.  Alonzo  scorned  to  follow,  particularly  as  he  had  a  snug  berth 
under  one  of  the  three  altheas ;  but  a  voice  crying  "  Seek  him — 
seek  him,  Vixen  !'  and  the  long  bounds  of  a  dog  in  the  back  yard 
dislodged  him,  and  he  made  an  ignominious  retreat. 

We  dare  not  describe  the  dreams  of  our  hero  that  night ;  but  we 
record  it  to  his  everlasting  credit  that  he  was  not  disheartened  by 
this  inauspicious  conclusion  of  his  daring  adventure.  He  ascribed 
the  rude  interruption,  very  correctly,  to  one  of  Miss  Alida's  brothers ; 
and  every  time  he  met  one  of  them  in  the  street  he  used  to  tell  his 
grandmamma  of  it  when  he  came  home,  always  adding  that  he  only 
wished  he  knew  whether  that  was  the  one  ! 

Music  was  still  a  good  resource,  and  Mr.  Alonzo  resolved  to  tiy  it 
in  another  form.  He  knew  a  young  gentleman  who  played  the 
guitar,  and  sang  many  a  soft  Spanish  ditty  to  its  seductive  twang- 
ing ;  and,  as  this  youth  happened  to  be  a  good-natured  fellow,  and 
one  who  did  a  large  amount  of  serenading  on  his  own  account,  it 
was  not  difficult  to  persuade  him  to  attempt  something  for  a  friend. 

So,  when  next  the  fair  moon  favored  the  stricken-hearted,  the  two 
young  men,  choosing  a  spot  of  deepest  shade,  beset  Miss  Alida  with 
music  of  a  far  more  insidious  character  than  that  first  employed  by 
the  inexperienced  Alonzo.  Few  female  hearts  can  resist  the  influ- 
ence of  such  bewitching  airs  as  those  with  which  good-natured 
Harry  Blunt  endeavored  to  expound  his  friend's  sweet  meanings ; 
and,  after  a  whole  round  of  sentiment  had  rung  from  the  guitar,  and 
the  far  sweeter  tenor  of  its  owner,  a  window  opened  once  more,  and 
poor  Mr.  Alonzo  scampered  off  incontinent. 

Harry,  who  had  not  been  exposed  to  the  storm  which  rewarded 
the  previous  serenade,  stood  his  ground,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of 
picking  up  a  delicate  bouquet  which  fell  just  before  him  in  the 


COURTING   BY   PROXY.  241 


moonlight.     This  he  carried,  most  honorably,  to  his  friend,  whom  he 
supposed  to  be  already  in  Miss  Alida's  good  graces. 

'  What  shall  I  do  ?'  said  Mr.  Alonzo,-  who  had  a  dim  perception 
of  the  responsibility  attached  to  this  favor  from  a  lady. 

*  Do !'  exclaimed  Harry,  laughing,  '  why,  order  a  splendid  one  at 
N — 's,  and  send  a  servant  with  it  to-morrow,  with  your  compli- 
ments.' 

1  So  I  will !— see  if  I  do  n't,'  said  Mr.  Alonzo,  delighted.  '  I'll  get 
one  as  big  as  a  dinner-plate.' 

In  pursuance  of  this  resolve,  he  called  up  an  old  family  servant, 
and,  locking  the  door,  gave  him  ample  directions,  and  in  the  most 
solemn  manner. 

'And  mind,  Moses,'  said  young  master,  'get  one  of  the  very 
largest  size,  and  give  whatever  they  ask.'  Hapless  Alonzo  !  Why 
not  put  on  thy  hat,  and  go  forth  to  choose  thy  bouquet  in  person  ? 
Moses  took  the  ten-dollar  note  which  Alonzo  handed  him,  and 
departed  with  injunctions  to  utmost  speed  and  inviolable  dis- 
cretion. 

Mr.  Alonzo  paced  the  floor,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who,  having 
done  his  best,  feels  that  he  ought  to  succeed,  till  at  length  the 
returning  steps  of  his  messenger  greeted  his  ear.' 

'Well,  Mose!  have  you  carried  it?  Did  you  get  a  handsome 
one  ?  Did  you  see  her  ?  What  did  she  say  ?' 

Poor  Mose  showed  the  entire  white  of  his  eyes. 

'  Why  Massa,'  said  he, '  you  ax  me  too  many  questions  to  onst. 
I  got  him,  and  I  carried  him  to  Miss  Van  Der  Benschoten's  house, 
but  I  no  see  the  young  woman  ;  but  I  tell  the  colored  gentleman  at 
the  door  who  sent  him.' 

'  That  was  right,'  said  Mr.  Alonzo ;  but  was  it  large  and  hand- 
some Moses  ?' 

11 


242 


THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


'  Monstrous  big,  Massa  ;  big  as  dat  stand  any  how  !  And  here's 
the  change  ;  I  beat  him  down  a  good  deal,  for  he  ask  two  shillin, 
and  I  make  him  take  eighteen  pence.' 

And  it  was  with  much  self-complacency  that  good  old  Moses 
pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  handful  of  money. 

*  Change !'   said   Mr.  Alonzo,  with  much  misgiving,  l-  change — 
eighteenpence — two  shillings — what  are  you  talking  about  ?     What 
kind  of  flowers  were  they  ? 

'  Oh  !  beautiful  flowers,  massa.  There  was  pi'nies  and  laylocks, 
and  paas-blumechies,  and  eberyting !' 

We  will  only  say  that  if  hard  words  could  break  bones,  poor  old 
Moses  would  not  have  had  a  whole  one  left  in  his  body — but  of 
what  avail  ? 

Next  day  came  out  invitations  for  a  large  party  at  Mrs.  Van  Der 
Benschoten's,  and  Harry  Blunt,  who  had  been  spied  out  by  one  of 
the  belligerent  brothers  of  Miss  Alida,  and  recognized  as  the  hero 
of  the  serenade  a  T  Espagnol,  was  invited,  while  our  poor  fnend, 
Alonzo,  was  overlooked  entirely,  in  spite  of  the  laugh  which  his 
eleg&nt  bouquet  had  afforded  the  young  ladies. 

The  morning  after  the  party,  Alonzo  encountered  his  friend 
Harry,  who  had  been  much  surprised  at  his  absence. 

'  Why  didn't  you  go  ?'  he  asked ;  *  it  was  a  splendid  affair.  I 
heard  of  your  bouquet,  but  I  explained,  and  you  need  nofr  mind. 
Write  a  note  yonrself — that  will  set  all  right  again.' 

1  Would  you  really  ?'  said  Mr.  Alonzo,  earnestly. 

*  To  be  sure  I  would !     Come,  do  it  at  once.' 

But  Alonzo  recollected  that  he  had  not  yet  found  much  time  to 
bestow  on  his  education,  so  that  the  writing  of  a  note  would  be 
somewhat  of  an  undertaking. 

*  Can't  you  do  it  for  .me  ?'  said  he ;  you  are  used  to  these  things/ 


COURTING  BY   PROXY.  243 


Oh,  yes,  certainly,'  said  the  obliging  Harry,  and  he  dashed  off  a 
very  pretty  note,  enveloped  it,  comme  il  faut,  and  directed  it  to 
Miss  Van  Der  Benschoten,  Humming-Bird  Place. 

A  most  obliging  answer  was  returned — an  answer  requiring  a 
reply ;  and,  by  the  aid  of  his  friend  Harry,  Mr.  Alonzo  Romeo 
Rush  kept  up  his  side  of  the  correspondence  with  so  much  spirit, 
that,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  he  was  invited  to  call  at  the 
rural  residence,  with  an  understanding  on  all  sides  that  this  inter- 
view was  to  be  the  end  of  protocols,  and  the  incipient  stage  of  defini- 
tive arrangements  which  would  involve  the  future  happiness  of  a 
pair  of  hearts. 

It  was  an  anxious  morning,  that  which  fitted  out  Mr.  Alonzo 
Romeo  Rush  for  this  expedition.  His  grandmamma  washed  and 
combed  him,  and  the  little  tailoress  brushed  his  clothes,  picking  off 
every  particle  of  lint  with  her  slender  fingers,  and  thinking  when 
she  had  done,  that  he  stood  the  very  perfection  of  human  loveliness. 

*  Thank  you,  Mary,'  said  he,  very  kindly,  and,  as  he  looked  at 
her,  he  could  not  but  notice  the  deep  blush  which  covered  a  cheek 
usually  pale  for  want  of  exercise  and  amusement. 

However  this  was  no  time  to  look  at  tailoresses  ;  and  Mr.  Alonzo 
was  soon  on  his  way  to  Humming-Bird  Place. 

How  his  hand  trembled  as  he  fumbled  for  the~bell-handle,  and 
how  reminiscences  crowded  upon  him  as  he  saw  on  the  step  a  large 
dog  which  he  knew  by  intuition  to  be  the  very  Vixen  of  the  sere- 
nade. Then  to  think  of  what  different  circumstances  he  stood  in 
at  present !  Oh  !  it  was  overpowering,  and  Mr.  Alonzo  was  ah1  in 
a  perspiration  when  the  servant  opened  the  door. 

'  Is  Miss  Van  Der  Benschoten  at  home  f 

*  Yes,  sir !'     A  low  bow.     *  Walk  up  stairs,  sir  ?' 

Another  low  bow.    The  servant  must  have  guessed  his  errand. 


244  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


He  was  ushered  into  a  twilight  drawing-room,  and  sat  down,  his 
heart  throbbing  so  that  it  made  the  sofa-cushions  quiver. 

Hark  I — a  footstep — a  lady — and  in  another  instant  Mr.  Alonzo 
had  taken  a  small  hand  without  -venturing  to  look  at  the  face  of  the 
owner.  He  had  forgotten  to  make  a  speech,  so  he  held  the  little 
hand  and  meditated  one. 

At  length  he  began — *  Miss  Van  Der  Benschoten,  my  grand- 
mamma— '  and  here,  at  fault,  he  looked  up  inadvertantly. 

*  What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Rush !'  exclaimed  the  lady. 

4 1 — am  sick — '  said  Alonzo,  making  a  rush  for  the  street  door. 

The  lady  was  the  elder  sister  of  Miss  Alida,  diminutive,  ill-- 
formed, and  with  such  a  face  as  one  sees  in  very  severe  nightmare. 

Alonzo  reached  his  grandmamma's,  and  the  first  person  he  met 
as  he  dashed  through  the  hall  was  the  little  tailoress. 

We  know  not  if  he  had  made  a  Jeptha-like  vow  in  the  course  of 
his  transit ;  but  he  caught  the  hand  of  his  humble  friend,  and  said, 
with  startling  energy, 

i  Mary  !'  will  you  marry  me  ?' 

'Ill !'  said  the  poor  girl,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

But  Alonzo,  now  in  earnest,  found  no  lack  of  words ;  and  the 
result  was  that  he  drew  Mary's  arm  through  his,  and  half  led,  half 
carried  her,  straight  to  his  grandmamma's  sofa. 

4  Grandma !'  said  he,  *  This  shall  be  my  wife  or  nobody.  I  have 
tried  to  love  a  rich  girl,  but  I  love  Mary  without  trying.  Give  us 
your  blessing,  grandma,  and  let's  hare  the  wedding  at  once.' 

The  old  lady,  speechless,  could  only  hold  up  both  hands ;  but 
Alonzo,  inspired  by  real  feeling,  looked  so  different  from  the  soul- 
less darling  he  had  ever  seemed,  that  she  felt  an  involuntary  respect 
which  prevented  her  opposing  his  will  very  decidedly.  It  was  not 


COURTING  BY   PROXY.        *  245 


long  before  he  obtained  an  absolute  permission  to  be  happy  in  his 
own  way.     Wise  grandmamma  ! — say  we. 

Mary  was  always  a  good  girl,  and  riding  in  her  own  carriage  has 
made  her  a  beauty,  too.  She  is  not  the  only  lady  of  the  *  aueune' 
family  who  flourishes  within  our  bounds.  As  for  our  friend  Alonzo, 
he  smiles  instead  of  sighing,  as  he  passes  Humming-Bird  Place. 


GROWING  OLD  GRACEFULLY. 

ONE  would  think  the  art  of  growing  old  gracefully  would  form  a 
prominent  study  with  at  least  that  portion  of  human  race  which  is 
happy  enough  to  take  an  aesthetic  view  of  common  things.  For 
what  can  be  a  more  universal  concern  ?  Who  is  heroically  vain 
enough  to  desire  that  departing  charms  should  carry  life  with 
them  ?  Who  is  not  liable  to  live  beyond  the  time  when  to  be  is  to 
be  charming  ? 

It  may  safely  be  taken  for  granted,  that  every  one  likes  to  please  ; 
there  are  hardly  exceptions  to  prove  the  rule.  Whatever  subtile 
disguises  this  love  of  pleasing  may  put  on — however  k  may  borrow 
roughness,  or  carelessness,  or  egotism,  or  sarcasm,  as  its  mask — 
there  it  is,  snug  in  the  bottom  of  each  human  heart,  from  St.  Simeon 
Stylites  shivering  under  the  night-dews,  to  Jenny  Lind  flying  from 
adoring  lion-hunters,  and  Pio  Nono  piously  tapping  his  gold  snuff- 
box, and  saying  he  is  only  a  poor  priest !  The  little  boy  who  has 
committed  his  piece  with  much  labor  of  brain,  much  screwing  of 
body,  and  anxious  gesticular  tuition,  utterly  refuses  to  say  it  when 
the  time  comes.  Why  ?  Not  because  he  does  not  wish  to  please, 
but  because  his  intense  desire  to  do  so  has  suddenly  assumed  a  new 
form,  that  of  fear ;  which  like  other  passions,  is  veiy  unreasonable. 


GROWING   OLD   GRACEFULLY.  24Y 


The  same  cause  will  make  a  young  lady  who  has  bestowed  much 
thought  on  a  new  ball-dress,  declare  at  the  last  moment,  that  she 
does  not  want  to  go !  A  doubt  has  suddenly  assailed  her  as  to  the 
success  of  her  costume.  The  dress  is  surely  beautiful,  but  will  it 
make  her  so  ?  No  vigor  of  personal  vanity  preserves  us  from  these 
swoons  of  self-esteem  ;  and  they  are  terrible  while  they  last.  What 
wonder,  then,  that  the  thought  of  a  perpetual  syncope  of  that  kind 
should  make  us  behave  unwisely  sometimes  ? 

This  universal  desire  of  pleasing,  and  in  particular  the  branch  of 
it  which  we  have  just  now  in  view — that  which  principally  concerns 
personal  appearance — is  far  from  deserving  to  be  reckoned  among 
our  weaknesses,  though  we  may  blush  to  own  it.  It  is  rather  a 
mark  of  weakness  to  disown  it,  especially  as  no  one /can  ever  do  that 
with  perfect  truth.  The  pride  that  leads  us  to  pretend  indifference, 
is  quite  as  mean  as  the  unlawful  arts,  affectations,  and  sacrifices  of 
modesty,  which  an  undue  anxiety  to  please  sometimes  prompts,  and 
surely  far  less  amiable.  If  we  admire  those  who  scorn  to  please  by 
the  usual  means,  it  is  only  as  we  prize  a  new  zoological  variety — for 
its  rarity,  and  for  no  grace  or  attractiveness,  but  rather  the  opposite. 
'  A  scornful  beauty'  is  only  one  who  is  less  natural  than  her  com- 
peers ;  who  fancies  she  has  discovered  a  new  power ;  a  witchery 
more  piquant  to  a  certain  class  of  observers.  Take  her  at  her  word, 
or  at  the  word  of  her  looks  and  behavior,  and  you  would  bring  her 
to  terms  very  soon.  Let  her  be  neglected  at  one  ball,  or  passed 
unnoticed  in  Broadway,  and  she  will  soon  confess  her  share  in  the 
universal  passion.  There  may  indeed  be  found  a  class  of  egotists  so 
imbued  with  self-esteem,  as  never  to  be  conscious  of  a  feeling 
amounting  to  a  wish  to  please  ahybody ;  but  this  is  because  no 
doubt  on  the  subject  ever  troubles  them  ;  and  they  have  been  life- 
long bores  to  all  about  them — a  fate  nowise  enviable.  Better  be 


248  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


teased  with  anxiety  to  please  beyond  the  limit  allotted  us  by  nature. 
That  is  at  least  -the  more  loveable  extreme. 

If  we  undertake  the  most  imperfect  examination  of  the  means 
given  us  by  which  to  accomplish  this  natural  desire  of  pleasing,  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  utter  many  commonplaces.  We  must  say  that 
a  sweet  and  loving  disposition  stands  foremost,  even  in  considering 
looks  ;  an  inward  feeling  and  habit  of  feeling1  which  gives  softness  to 
the  eyes,  and  delicacy  to  the  lips  :  a  warmth  of  cheerfulness  and 
good  will  that  lights  up  the  face  and  smooths  the  brow  :  a  sympathy 
whoso  glow  gives  color  to  the  cheek,  and  tenderness  to  "the  voice  : 
a  hearty  truthfulness,  able  to  carry  the  most  ordinary  words  right 
to  the  bottom  of  the  heart,  and  fix  them  there,  in  quiet  trust  and 
sweet  assurance.  After  all  that  has  been  said  of  '  fascination,'  in 
connexion  with  handsome  faces  lacking  this  radiance  of  goodness  and 
truth,  hardly  any  one  will  seriously  dispute  that  no  *  set  of  features, 
or  complexion,  or  tincture  of  a  skin'  will  compensate  for  the  soul  of 
loveliness. 

Yet  these  things  have  their  charm,  too  ;  so  great  a  charm,  that  we 
are  always  ready,  at  first,  to  fancy  that  all  lies  beneath  them  that 
should  belong  to  them.  A  fair  skin  seems  to  bespeak  a  calm  and 
pure  mind;  a  clear,  full  eye,  truth  and  innocence;  a  blushing^ 
changing  cheek,  modesty  and  sensibility.  Add  to  these  rich  and 
"beautiful  hair,  white  teeth,  and  a  radiant  smile,  and  throw  over  the 
whole  the  grace  of  symmetrical  harmony,  and  we  are  prone  to  as- 
cribe virtue  to  the  owner  of  attractions  so  potent,  or  rather  we  accept 
the  attractions,  and  take  the  virtues  for  granted.  Mere  beauty  of 
form  and  color  has  much  to  do  with  {he  pleasure  of  social  life ;  for 
we  never  can  dissever  from  these  the  qualities  they  ought  to  be- 


Even  dress  has  its  value  in  increasing  the  pleasure  of  social  inter- 


GROWING  OLD  GRACEFULLY.  249 


course,  or  at  least  making  some  persons  more  acceptable  to  us  than 
others.  Few  will  dispute  that  very  outre  or  coarse  or  ungraceful 
costume  detracts  from  the  pleasure  they  might  feel  in  certain  com- 
pany, or  that  it  is  often  truly  mortifying  when  those  we  love  appear 
in  society  ill-dressed ;  but  we  remember  to  have  heard  a  lady  go 
beyond  this  degree  of  candor,  in  saying  that  she  could  not  help 
loving  even  her  best  friends  the  better  for  being  elegantly  dressed. 
We  are  not  all  willing  to  own  as  much  ;  but  is  there  not,  in  truth, 
something  akin  to  this  feeling,  in  the  recollection  of  every  person  of 
taste  ?  The  sentiments  are  so  intimately  interwoven,  that  it  is  hard 
to  define  their  boundaries.  The  pleasure  we  receive  from  the  pre- 
sence of  the  beloved,  is  enhanced  or  diminished  by  a  thousand 
trifles  ;  is  not  dress  sometimes  one  of  them  ?  At  least,  we  must 
confess,  that  where  those  we  only  like  are  concerned,  it  makes  a 
good  deal  of  difference. 

We  speak  of  dress  as  having  expression  / — $s  being  sombre  or 
the  contrary,  and  affecting  our  spirits  for  the  moment  correspond- 
ingly. Bright  and  delicate  colors  are  naturally  agreeable  to  the  eye, 
and  conducive  to  cheerfulness ;  so  much  so  that  many  persons,  not 
willing  to  prolong  the  pain  of  sorrow,  dis-like  to  wear  mourning, 
simply  because  of  its  influence  on  the  spirits.  To  natures  thus  im- 
pressive, any  dark  uniformity  of  dress  is  unpleasing ;  they  do  not 
like  even  to  invite  guests  who  will  be  sure  to  come  in  gloomy  colors. 
Bright  tints  are  the  natural  symbols  of  joy,  hope,  gaiety ;  and  the 
susceptible  love  none  other.  Their  sensitiveness  confesses  the  need 
of  these  among  other  defences  against  the  insidious,  creeping  gloom 
of  life,  which  ever  threatens  us,  as  the  sands  of  Egypt  every  open 
space  left  unguarded. 

Do  we  seem  to  haye  wandered  from  our  theme  ?  We  have  only 
been  approaching  it.  The  reason  why  growing  old  gracefully  has 


250  -  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


become  a  theme  at  all  is,  that  there  have  been  complaints  that  the 
art  is  not  understood  or  the  duty  recognized.  These  complaints 
have  been  made  by  two  classes, — the,  young  and  the  old ;  not  at  all 
by  those  between  youth  and  age.  They  are  generally  willing  to  let 
the  matter  pass  sub  silentio.  But  what  is  the  ground  of  complaint  ? 
Twofold.  With  the  young,  who  are  buoyant,  eager  after  their  own 
objects,  and — with  mildness  be  it  hinted — a  little  apt  to  be  self-satis- 
fied, it  is  that  those  who  have  passed  through  that  stage  are  not 
quite  willing  enough  to  retire  and  leave  a  clear  field  for  others. 
The  intensity  of  interest  with  which  the  thoughts  of  debutants  are 
fixed  on  themselves  and  their  companions  is  such,  that  it  seems  to 
them  somewhat  impertinent  in  anybody  else  to  live  at  all ;  unpar- 
donable to  show  any  unwillingness  to  subside  into  a  state  of  hiberna- 
tion, like  other  stupid  animals.  How  unreasonable  in  ladies  who 
have  lost  their  bloom  to  claim  attention !  How  tiresome  in  gen- 
tlemen old  enough  to  desire  sensible  conversation,  the  attempt  to 
occupy  the  time  devoted  to  flirtation ! 

With  the  old,  the  reproach  is  generally  still  more  severe.  '  It  is 
quite  time  to  be  leaving  off  such  follies  and  thinking  of  something 
better/  Something  better !  Ah  !  there  is  the  question.  Is  it  bet- 
ter to  let  the  charms  of  youth  depart  without  an  effort,  to  invite  the 
steps  of  unlovely  age,  to  forget  the  sympathies  of  early  days,  to  fore- 
go the  society  of  the  gay  and  cheerful,  to  put  ourselves  in  the  way 
of  becoming  repulsive  and  censorious  ?  Some  people  are  constitu- 
tionally moping  and  dissatisfied,  and  these  are  apt  to  be  veiy  cross 
that  everybody  else  is  not  so  too.  Tempers  any  gayer  than  their 
own  are  necessarily  'frivolous  ;'  a  relish  for  company  which  they  are 
unfitted  to  enjoy,  *  dissipated,'  or  '  light-minded.'  To  dress  cheer- 
fully and  becomingly  is  considered  as  an  attempt  to  affect  youth ; 
to  converse  gaily,  an  unsuitable  effort  to  attract  admirers.  There  is 


GROWING  OLD  GRACEFULLY.         251 


really  no  limit  to  the  ungracious  things  said  and  looked  by  some 
very  dull  people,  who  desire  to  get  as  many  names  as  possible  into 
their  own  category.  Nothing  would  please  them  better  than 
sumptuary  laws  which  should  proscribe  certain  colors,  forms,  and 
ornaments  of  dress  after  a  certain  age  ;  and  if  the  ordinance  could 
be  so  devised  as  to  prohibit  laughing,  and  liveliness,  and  joining  in 
youthful  pleasures,  from  and  after  the  same  period,  it  would  be  still, 
more  gratifying.  It  were  curious,  but  perhaps  not  profitable,  to  in- 
quire whether  the  amusement  vulgarly  called  backbiting,  would  be 
increased  or  diminished  by  such  a  law.  Ah !  those  pale-green  eyes ! 
We  imagine  them  fixed  upon  us  as  we  make  these  daring  sugges- 
tions, and  our  blood  creeps  as  we  write.  We  are  ready  to  give  in  ; 
but  candor  and  duty  oblige  us  to  proceed  with  a  few  words  for  the 
weaker  party. 

Does  not  the  unwillingness  of  the  young  to  see  their  advantages 
shared  by  those  who  have  not  full  claim  to  them  show  how  keenly 
our  common,  human  nature  appreciates  those  advantages?  And 
what  prompts  the  sharp  remark  but  a  desire  to  monopolize  them  ? 
Uncle  Toby,  when  he  put  the  troublesome  fly  out  of  the  window, 
said,  *  There  is  room  enough  in  the  world  for  thee  and  me.'  Pity 
but  the  young  could  apply  this.  '  What  a  prodigious  quantity  of 
Charlotte-Russe  E always  eats !'  said  a  certain  person  at  sup- 
per. We  need  not  say  that  the  certain  person  was  very  fond  of 
Charlotte-Russe.  Virtuous  indignation  is  very  apt  to  have  a  little 
personal  feeling  at  the  bottom.  If  there  were  an  unh'mited  amount 
of  attention  and  admiration  in  every  circle,  so  that  each  member  of 
it  could  be  supplied  to  heart's  content,  the  moral  aspect  of  wishing 
.to  be  agreeable  too  late  in  life  would  not  seem  half  so  heinous  to 
those  who  now  satirize  it.  Public  opinion  visits  with  great  severity 
all  offences  against  property,  because  the  public  loves  property  above 


252  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


all  other  things ;  and  decorum  is  never  so  ferocious,  as  when  unlaw- 
ful appropriation  of  kind,  or  approving,  or  admiring,  words  and 
looks  is  in  question ;  because  even  the  decorous,  in  their  secret  hearts 
covet  these  things  with  an  intensity  which  they  are  reluctant  to  own, 
and  ill  endure  to  see  the  general  sum  too  much  subdivided.  We 
must  pardon  the  hypocrisy,  which  is  often  quite  unconscious. 

*  But  unworthy  arts  are  practised.'  What  are  they  ?  We  have 
seen  by  what  circumstances  or  qualities  nature  teaches  us  to  please. 
One  of  the  most  prominent  of  these  is  personal  appearance.  The 
lapse  of  years  steals  the  smoothness  of  the  cheek  and  the  rich  color 
of  the  hair ;  gives  perhaps  too  much  roundness  or  its  more  unde- 
sirable opposite  to  the  figure  ;  changes  even  the  expression  of  the 
mouth,  by  secret  inroads  upon  the  teeth  ;  softens  the  once  firm 
muscles,  and  thus  impairs  freedom  and  grace  of  movement ;  and  in 
many  other  ways,  more  or  less  conspicuous,  indicates  that  the  body 
has  culminated,  passed  its  perfection,  received  a  hint  of  decay.  We 
arti  not  forgetting  for  a  moment  that  all  these  changes  have  nothing 
to  do  with  decay  of  the  mind ;  on  the  contrary,  they  are  often  the 
veiy  signs  of  its  ripening.  The  kernel  grows  sweeter  as  its  shell 
dries  and  hardens.  But  no  human  creature  is  wholly  indifferent  to 
human  beauty  ;  and  with  our  instinctive  knowledge  of  this  truth,  it 
is  as  foolish  to  wish  as  it  is  unreasonable  to  expect  that  the  moment 
of  threatened  loss  should  be  that  of  indifference. 

The  young  may  be  comparatively  careless  on  the  subject  of  good 
looks,  for  youth  is  beauty  ;  yet  even  they  are  not  often  found  wholly 
neglectful  of  the  means  of  enhancing  this  great  advantage.  Why 
then  grudge  the  use  of  dress  and  personal  care  to  others  who  need 
it  so  much  more  ?  Even  what  may  be  called,  par  excellence,  the 
arts  of  dress,  are  patronized  by  the  young,  or  what  would  make  our 
dress-makers  such  expert  padders  and  lacers,  our  milliners  so  skilful 


GROWING  OLD  GRACEFULLY.  253 


in  the  choice  and  mingling  of  colors  and  textures  ?  Above  all,  how 
would  our  perfumers  and  cosmetic-venders  make  such  speedy  for* 
tunes,  if  they  were  not  patronized  by  the  young  ?  The  would-be 
young  are  not  a  sufficiently  numerous  class  to  support  half  of  them. 
Even  our  coiffeurs  and  dentists  depend  for  their  customers  more 
upon  the  rising  generation  than  upon  the  declining  one.  We  would 
venture  a  guess  that  ten  times  as  many  lotions  for  improving  the 
complexion,  miraculous  soaps  to  make  soft  white  hands,  dentifrices, 
depilatories,  and  capilline  balms,  are  sold  to  damsels  and  youths 
under  twenty,  as  are  ever  purchased  by  an  equal  number  of  people 
over  forty.  The  truth  is,  that  by  the  time  that  mature  age  is 
reached,  most  persons  blessed  with  common  sense  have  discovered 
that  these  outward  appliances  have  very  little  power  to  improve, 
none  at  all  to  disguise.  The  idea  that  this  power  resides  in  any- 
thing yet  invented  by  the  ingenuity  or  cupidity  of  man  belongs,  only 
to  the  season  of  an  intense  and  original  verdancy.  Nature,  whose 
decree  it  is  that  every  passing  thought  and  emotion,  every  lapsing 
year,  every  illness,  every  grief,  shall  write  itself  legibly  on  face  and 
form,  takes  care  that  nothing  shall  counteract  her  design.  No  arts 
are  so  sure  to  be  baffled  and  exposed  as  cosmetic  arts.  It  was  only 
the  other  evening  that  we  saw  a  lady  of  a  certain  age  with  a  face 
and  neck  like  ivory  or  alabaster,  cheeks  softly  tinged  with  rose, 
and  hair  that  rivalled  jet  in  blackness  and  lustre.  Her  toilet  had 
been  most  successful ;  but  what  was  the  result  ?  Why,  that  the 
youngest  and  least  practised  eye  in  the  room  detected  eveiy  impos- 
ture at  a  glance,  and  found  the  face  as  uninteresting  as  those  revolv- 
ing countenances  in  hairdressers'  windows,  glaring  at  you  with  ft 
hideous,  fixed  smile,  and  eyes  which  have  no  speculation  in  them. 
'  Made  up !'  was  the  contemptuous  sentence  on  every  lip.  The 
flattering  assurance  given  to  the  poor  lady  by  her  glass  was  one  of 


* 
254  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


those  delusions  by  which  the  father  of  lies  induces  the  victims  of 
vanity  to  sign  away  their  souls  ;  which  *  keep  the  word  of  promise 
to  the  ear,  but  break  it  to  the  sense ;'  conferring  the  coveted  beauties 
but  depriving  them  of  all  power  to  charm.  Most  melancholy  are 
these  errors,  to  the  looker-on  of  any  sensibility  or  kind  feelings. 

Deception  with  regard  to  age,  then,  we  look  upon  as  out  of  the 
question  ;  what  is  left  to  quarrel  with  ?  Too  much  gaiety  of  dress 
or  manner  ?  Why,  when  gaiety  of  any  kind  is  not  too  abundant  in 
society,  and  too  many  people  frequent  it  looking  memento  mori  in 
every  feature  ?  We  ought  to  be  grateful  to  the  few  who  can,  from 
whatever  motive,  help  to  throw  a  little  sunshine  on  society.  If 
their  light  be  slightly  refracted,  we  are  not  to  condemn  it  as 
spurious.  Why  is  gaiety  unsuitable  after  youth  is  passed  ?  Only 
because  we  are  not  used  to  it.  The  tendency  of  life  is  to  extinguish 
it ; — of  life,  though  never  so  prosperous  and  happy.  Few  have 
courage  enough  to  cultivate  cheerfulness  of  thought  ;  still  fewer, 
cheerfulness  of  behavior,  which  costs  an  effort.  We  have  learned, 
therefore,  to  consider  grave  manners  as  alone  suitable  to  mature 
years ;  and  we  are  apt  to  antedate  the  period  at  which  '  mature' 
years  ought  in  conscience  to  be  considered  as  begun.  It  is,  after  all, 
a  strange  jealousy  this !  It  confesses  its  nature  at  every  turning, 
yet  it  insists  upon  being  considered  the  champion  of  virtue.  That 
is  an  old  trick  of  selfishness. 

But  when  elderly  people  are  accused  of  undue  youthfulness  of 
dress  or  manner,  it  is  usually  accompanied  with  some  suspicion  of  a 
design  upon  the  other  sex.  Is  such  design,  then,  the  ground  of 
gay  dress  and  manner  in  the  young  ?  And  if  so,  and  it  be  con- 
sidered innocent  m  them,  is  it  contemptible  in  the  more  advanced  ? 
At  what  age  is  man  or  woman  too  old  to  desire  happiness?  If 
ill-success  attend  the  forced  buddings  of  this  second  spring,  as  it  is 


GROWING  OLD  GRACEFULLY.  255 


very  likely  to  do,  does  it  not  constitute  a  sufficient  punishment  for 
the  attempt  to  break  through  Nature's  thorny  hedges?  If 
prosperity,  then  must  we  conclude  the  aspirant  wise,  the  objector 
foolish,  and — envious.  Such  things  have  been,  and  the  satirists,  left 
behind,  have  had  to  gnash  their  mental  teeth  in  impotent 
vexation. 

But,  after  saying  thus  much,  it  may  be  requisite  for  us  to  protest 
that  we  are  quite  aware  of  the  truly  ridiculous  figure  sometimes 
exhibited  by  an  antiquated  boy  or  superannuated  girl  who  is  weak 
enough  to  make  spasmodic  and  ghastly  efforts  at  the  manners  and 
appearance  of  youth.  We  have  not  a  word  to  say  in  defence 
of  these  punchinelloes,  but  give  them  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  other  dissectors  of  human  character  and 
folly.  They  are  usually  people  who  never  were  anything  but 
emptiness : 

4  A  brain  of  feathers,  and  a  heart  of  lead  ! ' 

Happily  such  instances  are  few,  in  our  state  of  society,  at  least. 
For  one  aged  butterfly  we  have  a  dozen  prematurely  old  and 
morbidly  grave  people,  who  seem  to  think  goodness  and  attract- 
iveness incompatible,  and  amusement  a  weak,  if.  not  a  sinful, 
indulgence.  We  feel  sometimes  almost  ready  to  compound  for  a 
few  belated  friskers,  by  way  of  variety. 

Allowing,  however,  that  there  are,  even  among  us,  some  whom  a 
desire  of  being  agreeable  betrays  into  unbecoming  behavior, — 
for  we  would  not  be  understood  to  insinuate  that  a  fine  instinct  will 
not  guide  each  period  of  life  to  a  style  of  manners  peculiarly  suited 
to  itself, — let  us  inquire  to  what  temptation  is  the  error  owing. 
We  have  seen  that  the  secret  wish  of  every  heart  is  to  please, — to 
be  acceptable, — to  be  sought.  All  like  to  be  invited, — to  read 


256  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 

in  the  eyes  of  those  about  them  that  their  company  gives  pleasure. 
All  dread  the  cold  shoulder,  the  listless  eye,  the  unready  hand. 
None  but  a  cynic  chooses  to  be  omitted  when  a  party  is  made  up, 
or  put  off  with  an  apology  instead  of  a  visit.  Now,  in  the  very 
nature  of  things,  the  insidious  approach  of  years  must  bring  round 
the  point  at  which  such  neglect  will,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
be  felt  to  begin.  The  changes  of  life  separate  us  from  our  original 
companions,  and  bring  us  into  contact  with  all  ages.  Perhaps  it  is 
our  lot  to  find  agreeable  young  people,  and  rather  indolent  or 
unsocial  elder  ones.  But  the  young  do  not  seek  us  naturally, 
unless  we  are  in  some  degree  conformed  to  them ;  unless  we 
keep  up  a  youthful  interest  in  their  pursuits,  sympathize  in  their  not 
always  wise  wishes,  and  lead  them,  by  some  sacrifice  or  accommo- 
dation, to  forget  the  additional  experience  which  might  otherwise 
inspire  some  dread  of  our  severer  notions.  Is  not  here  an  induce- 
ment— we  will  not  say  a  temptation,  for  that  implies  wrong — to 
keep  young  as  long  as  possible  ?  Candid  married  ladies  confess, 
sometimes,  the  secret  pang  with  which  they  first  found  themselves 
left  out  when  a  'young'  party  was  made  up, — the  said  young  party 
consisting  of  the  very  friends  and  associates  to  whom  they  had  been 
all  in  all  but  a  little  while  before.  Wherefore  this  omission  ? 
Because  there  was  an  idea  of  diminished  or  transferred  sympathies. 
Far  more  cutting  must  be  the  first  perception  of  a  change  of  this 
sort  to  the  unmarried,  who  can  refer  it  only  to  the  hopeless 
disadvantage  of  increasing  years.  These  compulsory  shadows  on 
one's  life  must  be  chilling  indeed.  No  wonder  we  should  desire  to 
keep  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  Rubicon.  If  the  young  are  disposed 
to  sneer  at  those  who  are  not  willing  to  be  old,  let  them  rather 
cultivate  in  themselves  a  more  humane  feeling  towards  the  frontier 
people, — dwellers  in  the  Debatable  Land,  always  an  unquiet 


GROWING   OLD   GRACEFULLY.  257 


position.  Let  them  show  less  eagerness  to  monopolize  youth,  and 
others  will  be  less  eager  to  cling  to  it.  Of  all  castes  yet  devised  for 
partitioning  society,  this  of  years  is  the  least  dignified  and  the  most 
offensive  ;  and  of  all  countries,  this  of  ours,  which  professedly 
repudiates  caste,  is  foremost  in  this  division.  It  would  seem  as  if 
the  national  youthfulness  had  expressed  itself  in  the  maxims  of 
social  life,  making  it,  by  the  supreme  law  of  fashion,  un-American 
to  be  anything  but  young.  What  was  Bryant  thinking  of,  when  he 
wrote,  in  one  of  the  most  glorious  of  his  poems, — 

'  Oh,  Freedom !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair,  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses !'  ? 

Why,  she  '  isn't  anything  else !'  if  we  may  judge  by  the  general 
aspect  of  most  of  our  companies,  where  young  girls  (and  boys)  not 
only  enjoy,  but  claim,  the  '  largest  liberty,'  allowing  it  to  others  in 
such  modicums  as  they  judge  expedient.  We  are  assured — but 
this  we  will  not  vouch  for — that  in  certain  quarters  it  is  thought 
rather  impertinent  if  mammas  or  married  sisters  do  not  withdraw 
into  the  shade  on  all  occasions  of  reunion  for  merry  doings.  Tra- 
vellers in  the  United  States  have  repeatedly  recorded  their  astonish- 
ment at  this  peculiar  state  of  things : — that  the  approach  to 
maturity  incapacitates — and  especially  ladies — for  American  society. 
This  is  really  enough  to  make  one  paint,  patch,  and  powder ;  dye 
one's  hair  and  eyebrows,  and  wear  false  curls  and  braids,  teeth, 
beards,  and  mustaches ;  suffer  the  martyrdom  of  tight  shoes  on 
agricultural  feet,  obviate  every  awkward  deficiency  or  redundance 
of  nature  with  whalebone  and  cotton  batting,  and,  in  short  do  all 
those  dreadful  things  which  draw  upon  desperate  people,  disposed 
to  catch  at  straws  on  the  ocean  of  Time,  the  reproach  of  not  grow- 


258  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


ing  old  gracefully  !  Who  likes  to  be  laid  on  the  shelf,  and  medi- 
cined  there  with  such  placebos  as — '  Dear  Aunt  Sally  !  she  hate? 
dress,  and  does  so  love  to  be  alone  !'  or — *  That  good  soul,  Cousin 
Thomas  !  he  is  always  pleased  when  others  enjoy  themselves,  but 
he  does  not  care  for  society  !' — instead  of  hearty  invitations  ? 

It  is  a  very  odd  thing,  seeing  that  the  course  of  time  invariably 
robs  everybody  of  youth,  that  those  who  are  on  the  high  road  to  age, 
and  hoping  with  all  their  hearts  to  arrive  there,  should  so  hate  every 
one  of  the  inevitable  milestones  on  the  way.  *  All  men  think  all 
men  mortal  but  themselves.'  What  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  jokes 
is  afforded  by  the  failing  eyes  of  our  friends  !  what  rich  amusement 
in  rheumatism  or  corns !  It  seems  not  always  to  be  easy  for  the 
sufferer  to  join  in  the  laugh ;  but  we  liked  the  quiet  answer  of  a 
fridnd  whose  white  hairs  were  the  subject  of  ridicule  :  '  Our  blessings 
brighten  as  they  take  their  flight !'  One  would  think  certain 
favored  individuals  had  been  insured  against  losses  of  this  sort ;  but, 
among  all  the  modes  devised  for  equalizing  the  ills  of  life,  there  has 
not  yet  appeared  one  that  offers  remedy  or  indemnity  for  faded 
charms.  If  there  were,  what  a  prodigious  run  it  would  have ! 
Those  whose  wit  is  rifest  on  these  points — and  there  are  some  who 
really  seem  to  enjoy  the  symptoms  of  decay  in  their  best  friends — 
would  betray  the  latent  dread  of  their  own  hearts  by  being  first  on 
the  books.  They  would  acknowledge  the  importance  of  being 
insured  against  ridicule  and  neglect  during  the  period  in  which  the 
aspect  of  age  is  as  yet  strange,  and  therefore  unwelcome.  Happily 
this  season  is  not  of  very  long  duration,  for  it  brings  with  it  the 
pain  common  to  all  down-hill  travelling  before  the  muscles  have 
become  used  to  their  new  action. 

This  overweening  estimate  of  youth  bespeaks  a  low  idea  of  the 
materials  of  which  agreeable  society  should  be  composed.  *  None 


GROWING  OLD  GRACEFULLY.         259 


grow  old,'  says  Madame  Rahel,  '  but  they  who  were  never  any- 
thing but  young?  The  qualities  which  make  people  agreeable  in 
the  highest  degree  are  those  with  which  age  latest  interferes ;  and 
if  there  have  originally  been  anything  of  value  in  the  mind,  expe- 
rience must  ripen  and  bring  it  to  perfection.  Information  increases 
with  years  with  all  but  absolute  fools ;  and  sympathy  need  not  be 
lessened  if  the  trials  of  life  be  put  to  their  best  use.  Impetuosity 
may  have  faded ;  but  if  in  its  stead, 

*  Years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind' 

bring  also  patience,  consideration,  allowance,  judgment,  and  kindly 
feeling,  why  need  we  regret  it  ?  If  we  have  fewer  prejudices, 
greater  facility  of  generous  admiration,  more  accurate  and  cultivated 
taste,  a  wider  range  of  interest ;  if,  in  parting  with  a  portion  of  our 
early  fire,  we  have  lost  none  of  our  genial  warmth  ;  if  the  friends 
that  remain  are  the  more  precious  because  of  those  who  are  gone, 
and  this  life  the  more  beautiful  inasmuch  as  we  have  learned  to  dis- 
cern more  clearly  its  connection  with  another :  surely  we  should 
not  be  dismissed  from  the  social  circle  because  our  outward  grace 
and  transitory  bloom  have  fled  ;  cast  on  the  stream  of  Time,  like 
dead  garlands  after  a  festival — fit  only  to  prepare  the  soil  for  other 
flowers  equally  fleeting.  At  the  period  of  middle  life  of  which  we 
speak,  the  good  have  earned  the  right  to  be  plain  without  being 
considered  repulsive ;  if  they  cannot  beautify  society,  they  may  at 
least  adorn  it.  Dancing  they  may  think  proper  to  lay  aside,  but 
for  conversation  they  are  better  fitted  than  ever,  and  even  the  young 
cannot  always  dance.  Music  is  not  yet  prohibited  to  the  mature, 
nor  the  hundred  fireside  games  that  make  the  winter's  evening  pass 
BO  merrily.  Flirtation  may  be  a  little  out  of  season  with  them,  but 
does  not  this  make  them  all  the  more  desirable  companions  for  a 


260  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


certain  class  of  young  people,  who  could  hardly  bear  to  share  their 
chief  pleasure  with  even  their  dearest  friends  ? 

If  we  had  power  to  sketch  our  ideal  of  one  who  is  learning  to 
take  worthily  the  first  steps  on  the  down-hill  of  life,  we  should,  it  is 
true,  mingle  no  inconsiderable  leaven  of  seriousness  with  the  cheer- 
ful light  we  love  to  see  thrown  over  the  character.  Sadness  and 
sweetness  are  not,  in  our  view,  irreconcileable ;  indeed  we  think 
sometimes  of  a  sweet  sadness  as  something  fascinating  beyond  the 
gaiety  which  carries  with  it  an  unpleasant  suspicion  of  blunted  sen- 
sibilities. Yet  we  desire  no  morbid  seriousness.  We  ask  sunshine 
from  the  heart ;  true,  loving  sympathy  with  young  and  old,  the  dear 
result  of  reflection  and  kind  offices  ;  an  intelligent  interest  in  every 
possible  improvement ;  an  incessant  cultivation  of  every  talent  and 
faculty,  joined  with  a  love  of  imparting  that  makes  it  impossible  to 
withhold  ;  a  power  of  self-adaptation,  the  growth  of  active,  mould- 
ing affection : — and  constant  employment  for  all  these  qualifications. 
If  we  are  for  no  exclusions,  we  are  for  no  sinecures ;  if  we  would 
have  our  friends  sought,  we  would  also  have  them  worth  seeking. 
No  faineants  m  the  field!  Good  and  true  devoir  and  service,  as 
well  as  an  honorable  place  at  the  feast  !* 


THE  TOWN  POOR, 

A    WESTERN    REMINISCENCE. 

» 

IT  is  somewhat  difficult,  amid  the  conventionalisms  of  great  cities, 
to  remember  that  mere  humanity,  ungraced  by  wealth  or  station, 
and  destitute  of  the  talent  by  which  these  are  to  be  acquired,  has 
any  claim  to  respect  or  consideration.  A  pauper,  among  us,  is  a 
mere  animal,  whose  physical  necessities  a  certain,  prejudice  obliges 
us  to  supply,  but  whose  extinction  would  be  a  decided  advantage  to 
all  concerned,  himself  included,  though  there  is  unfortunately  no 
provision  in  our  laws  for  putting  out  of  the  world  those  who  are 
merely  superfluous  in  it. 

A  lady  observed,  last  summer,  that  it  was  delightful,  during  the 
abundant  fruit  season,  to  see  every  poor  little  beggar  about  the 
markets  with  a  fine  peach  or  watermelon.  *  Why,'  said  her  friend, 
in  all  simplicity,  '  did  you  think  they  would  eat  so  much  as  to  kill 
themselves  ?' 

This  was  the  thought  that  suggested  itself  to  a  rich  and  not  .un- 
feeling person,  on  hearing  that  paupers  were  enjoying  fruit.  In  the 
country,  and  especially  in  the  new  country,  people  feel  so  differently, 
with  all  their  coarseness  ! 

We  had  only  one  confessedly  'poor'  family  in  the  town  during 


262  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


the  half  dozen  years  of  our  residence  in  the  West.  This  was  the 
household  of  a  stout,  healthy  carpenter,  with  a  bed-ridden  Avife,  and 
a  good  many  chubby  children.  At  first  the  man  struggled  feebly 
against  fate,  but  he  was  too  insurmountably  lazy  and  inefficient  to 
supply,  by  extra  effort,  the  deficiency  occasioned  by  his  wife's  condi- 
tion. •  His  step  was  always  slow  and  heavy,  except  when  the  dinner- 
horn  sounded  when  he  was  at  work  for  some  thriving  farmer.  At 
home,  it  was  said,  poor  fellow,  that  he  never  knew  what  dinner  was, 
but  took  bread  and  milk,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  the  year  round. 
At  his  work  he  was  a  very  snail,  measuring  and  measuring,  and, 
after  all,  goirfg  wrong,  and  spoiling  all  by  mere  absence  of  mind  and 
forgetfulness.  So,  of  course,  work  became  scarce  with  him. 

Meanwhile,  his  wife  was  always  on  the  bed,  except  when  she 
wanted  something  to  eat ;  and  she  was  reported  to  have  an  admira- 
ble appetite.  The  neighbors  said  a  good  many  hard  things  about 
her  being  able  to  exert  herself  when  anything  excited  her  ;  but  she 
insisted  that  she  had 'a  weakness  in  her  back  about  as  large  as  a 
knitting-needle,  which  prevented  her  doing  any  kind  of  work,  active 
or  sedentary,  though  she  could  manage  occasionally  to  go  to  a  tea- 
drinking,  or  net  herself  a  smart  cap  or  collar  when  there  was  to  be 
a  quarterly  meeting. 

This  did  pretty  well  while  the  poor  carpenter  could  pay  his  way, 
and  keep  all  the  hungry  mouths  supplied  with  something  in  the 
way  of  food.  But  by  and  bye  indolence,  and  improvidence,  and 
dirt,  and  poor  fare,  did  their  work  upon  him,  and  he  was  gradually 
incapacitated  for  work,  and  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  asking  aid 
from  the  town.  After  this  the  waters  soon  closed  over  his  head. 
Debts  pressed — sickness  came — hope  (for  this  world)  was  extinct.1 
Happily,  even  in  this  darkness,  a  light  came  forth  from  the  future 
to  gild  the  downward  path  of  the  pauper, — (paupers  have  souls,  in 


THE  TOWN   POOR.  263 


the  country,) — and  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the  wretched  present  to 
the  far  better  life  to  come,  and  welcomed  Death  as  a  kindly  mes- 
senger, sent  by  his  Heavenly  Father  to  release  him  from  a  world  of 
woe.  No  death-bed  so  poor  that  this  spirit  of  love  and  hope  cannot 
curtain  it  with  gloiious  light,  converting  its  very  penury  into  an 
earnest  of  good  things  in  store  for  the  soul  which  has  received  l  evil 
things'  on  this  side  the  grave. 

There  is  perhaps  no  occasion  on  which  the  rougher  sort  of  people 
appear  to  better  advantage  than  in  circumstances  of  illness  and 
death  in  the  neighborhood.  Misfortunes  of  a  different  kind  occur- 
ring among  their  friends  do  not  always  awaken  the  •  sympathy  we 
should  expect,  perhaps,  because  there  is  some  truth  in  Rochefou- 
cault's  famous  maxim,  that  there  is  something  in  the  misfortunes  of 
others  which  is  not  disagreeable  to  us ;  and  the  untaught  do  not 
conceal  this  infirmity  as  cunningly  as  we  do.  Pecuniary  misfortunes 
are  pitied  by  a  curious  scale  of  estimates.  If  a  man  is  cheated  out 
of  his  farm,  so  that  he  is  obliged  to  '  pull  up  stakes'  arid  go  off  to 
Wisconsin  or  elsewhere,  very  little  commiseration  is  felt  for  him. 
It  passes  as  one  scene  in  the  great  'drama  of  life ;  a  crook  which 
may  come  in  any  man's  lot;  a  new  and  therefore  not  entirely 
undesirable  experience ;  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  world ;  an 
excuse  for  '  going  West,'  an  ever-present  dream  with  all  Western 
people.  If  heavy  rains  destroy  the  harvest^  when  all  has  promised 
golden  abundance,  the  misfortune  is  shared  so  widely  that  it  is 
borne  without  special  complaint,  since  misery  not  only  loves  com- 
pany but  is  consoled  by  it.  If  the  miller's  dam  break  away,  so  that 
it  requires  all  the  men  in  the  neighborhood  to  build  it  up  again,  it 
is  not  in  human  nature  to  expect  any  great  sympathy,  for  who  is 
sorry  for  a  good  'job  ?' 

But  let  a  fox  come  in  and  eat  up  a  brood  of  young  geese,  or  a 


264  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


weasel  suck  a  whole  nest  of  promising  eggs ;  let  the  rats  make 
havoc  in  the  pile  ef  rolls  from  the  carding-mill,  or  the  best  cow  get 
too  much  clover,  and  the  talk  of  the  whole  neighborhood  will  run  on 
nothing  else  until  some  new  accident  happens.  Perhaps  it  will  be 
said  that  it  is  because  these  misfortunes  fall  within  the  female  pro- 
vince that  words  are  lavished  about  them.  As  to  that  we  cannot 
say.  But  it  is  certain  that  they  seem  to  make  more  impression  on 
the  general  mind. 

For  all  that  touches  health  or  life,  however,  there  is  an  ever- 
ready,  warm,  overflowing  and  active  sympathy,  which  education  and 
refinement  could  hardly  improve,  even  if  education  and  refinement 
were  always  free  from  certain  haunting  influences  which  sometimes 
mar  their  inherent  beneficence.  Delicacy, -taste,  disinterestedness, 
tenderness,  may  be  lacking  at  other  times  among  the  uninstructed  ; 
when  the  hand  of  God  touches '  the  bone  and  the  flesh'  of  any 
member  of  the  community,  all  these  things  come,  by  a  beautiful 
instinct,  just  in  proportion  as  they  are  needed.  There  is  even  a  sort 
of  awe  of  the  sick,  and  this  among  people  whose  organ  of  reve- 
rence is  usually  anything  buf  morbidly  sensitive.  They  gaze  upon 
the  sufferer  reflectingly,  and  as  he  perceptibly  nears  the  borders  of 
the  dark  valley,  this  awe  is  deepened,  until  it  seems  as  if  the  out- 
skirts of  that  world  upon  which  clouds  and  darkness  rest,  cast  a 
shadow  on  the  face  of  the  attendants  around  the  sick  bed.  And 
this  reverential  or  awe-stricken  feeh'ng  is  not  to  be  -ascribed  to  a 
mere  fear  of  death ;  for  this,  strange  to  say,  is  not  a  trait  among 
such  people,  probably  because  their  imaginations  are  unawakened. 
It  is  a  sense  of  spiritual  reality  ;  a  bringing  home  of  the  assurances 
of  the  pulpit ;  an  effort  to  contemplate  the  unknown,  which  seems 
brought  within  ken  by  a  connecting  link  in  the  person  of  the  dying. 


THE  TOWN  POOR.  265 


At  least  such  is  the  appearance.     Although  not  untinged  by  super- 
stition, it  is  a  truly  religious  awe. 

But  in  cases  which  are  far  from  being  extreme,  or  even  dangerous, 
a  high  degree  of  sympathy  is  felt,  and  the  most  active,  ingenious 
and  self-sacrificing  kindness  exhibited.  The  remedies  prescribed  and 
offered  might  excite  a  smile,  to  be  sure ;  but  we  will  not  touch  upon 
them  now.  In  seasons  of  general  or  prevalent  disease,  it  not  unfre- 
quently  occurs  that  a  whole  neighborhood  will  be  so  worn  out  with 
night-watching  that  there  is  not  one  left  who  is  well  enough  for 
this  most  onerous  service.  In  that  case  what  riding  and  driving  is 
there,  to  fetch  unexhausted  nurses  from  more  fortunate  parts  of 
the  country  !  No  labor  or  sacrifice  is  thought  too  great  for  this  end, 
since  vigils  are  a  part  of  the  religion  of  country  people.  When  the 
most  luxurious  citizen  would  not  think  it  necessary  to  have  one  sit- 
ting up  to  be  ready  in  case  he  should  awake  and  wish  a  drink,  the 
backwoodsman  would  think  himself  ill-used  if  he  had  not  one  or 
two  l  watchers,'  for  whom  a  regular  meal  is  always  set,  and  who 
often  have  nothing  to  do  but  see  the  sick  man  sleep  ah1  night.  It  is 
not  this  injudicious  zeal  which  we  recommend  as  an  example. 

When  death  enters  a  family,  however,  the  sensation  is  felt 
throughout  a  whole  wide  neighborhood.  No  business  goes  on  as 
usual.  Every  voice  is  softened;  every  countenance  saddened. 
Arrangements  are  made  to  put  by  business  as  much  as  possible, 
that  there  may  be  leisure  to  assist  in  the  last  duties.  These  last 
duties  are  not  simplified  by  the  intervention  of  professional  people  as 
they  are  in  older  settlements.  Everything  has  to  be  considered, 
planned  and  provided  for,  by  the  neighbors  and  friends,  at  no  little 
cost  of  time  and  trouble.  It  is  often  necessary  to  send  several  miles 
to  obtain  suitable  material  for  the  coffin,  as  this  is  a  point  of  much 
interest ;  and  it  would  be  considered  highly  disrespectful  and  unkind 


THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


to  the  bereaved  to  neglect  such  a  mark  of  respect.  The  other 
offices  necessary  at  such  times  are  all  performed  in  the  same  spirit, 
and  all  in  th<5  most  quiet  and  delicate  manner,  without  a  question 
asked  of  the  mourning  family,  if  it  be  possible  to  avoid  this.  The 
house  is  prepared  for  the  funeral,  conveyances  provided,  distant 
friends  summoned  ;  all,  in  short,  is  done,  with  what  seems  an  instinct 
of  goodness.  The  coarse  man  of  yesterday  is  to-day  a  gentle 
brother,  full  of  untaught  but  most  touching  refinement.  The  neigh- 
borhood gossip,  whose  visits  have  been  a  terror,  is  transformed  to  an 
active,  useful,  quiet  friend ;  stepping  about  on  tip-toe,  and  refusing 
no  office,  however  unpleasant,  which  can  aid  the  general  purpose. 
Some  good  soul  whose  personal  services  are  not  needed  in  the  house, 
will,  without  a  word,  take  the  children  to  her  own  home,  and  devote 
herself  to  them  ;  while  another  will  occupy  herself  in  preparing  nice 
things  in  the  way  of  food,  that  there  may  be  wherewithal  to  enter- 
tain the  numerous  family  of  assistants  and  guests  usually  congre- 
gated on  such  occasions,  without  unpleasant  bustle  in  the  house  of 
affliction. 

The  last  ceremonies  are  veiy  similar  eveiywhere.  The  universal 
heart  speaks  out  in  sympathy  with  the  bereaved,  who  are  about  to 
commit  their  loved  ones  to  the  earth,  even  in  the  most  'artificial 
society,  where  every  other  feeling  seems  moulded,  if  not  chilled,  by 
fashion.  True,  gushing  tears  and  melting  hearts,  attest  the  great 
brotherhood  of  humanity,  even  in  circles  from  which  the  thought 
of  death  seems  habitually  shut  out.  In  the  country  this  is  pro- 
longed by  prayers  and  hymns,  and  sometimes  by  the  very  protracted 
preaching  of  the  clergyman — a  painful  practice,  since  emotion  is 
necessarily  exhausting,  and  there  is  a  sort  of  blank  which  occurs 
after  it  has  subsided,  unfavorable  to  the  tender  associations  that 
called  it  forth. 


THE  TOWN   POOR.  267 


The  public  leave-taking  customary  in  tlie  country  is  an  exception 
to  the  general  good  taste  and  delicacy  which  prevails  on  these  occa- 
sions. Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  distressing  for  the  friends,  or 
more  embarrassing  to  the  spectators,  than  the  custom  of  leading  up 
every  member  of  the  family  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  beloved 
remains  before  they  are  forever  removed  from  the  light  of  day. 
How  this  could  ever  have  been  judged  proper,  is  indeed  a  mystery. 

The  procession  consisting  of  all  the  wagons  and  carriages  of  the 
neighborhood,  filled  with  whole  families — since  women  and  even 
children  are  included — is  always  a  most  beautiful  and  interesting 
sight,  as  it  winds  slowly  through  the  woods  and  dells,  now  crossing 
a  rustic  bridge,  now  passing  the  brow  of  a  hill.  Let  the  distance 
be  ever  so  great,  the  same  deferential  pace  is  preserved,  and  the 
assistants  refrain  religiously  from  conversation  on  indifferent  subjects. 
Death  is  with  them  not  only  a  solemn  but  a  sacred  thing.  Its  pre- 
sence hushes  for  the  time  all  worldly  thoughts,  and  brings  eternity 
to  view.  Such  should  be  its  salutary  influence  everywhere.  If  we 
viewed  it  aright,  would  the  rebellious  heart  so  often  ask — Why 
must  it  be  ? 

The  burial  ground  in  the  new  country  is  usually  on  a  hill-side, 
enclosed  with  a  rough  fence,  and  encumbered  often  with  stumps  left 
from  the  original  clearing.  The  graves  are  wholly  unornamented 
except  here  and  there  a  bit  of  wooden  railing,  and  rarely,  a  head 
and  foot-stone.  Generally  two  pieces  of  board  supply  the  place  of 
these  ;  the  name  and  age  of  the 'deceased  being  painted  upon  the 
larger  one.  Not  unfrequently  a  bit  of  unpainted  wood,  with  letters 
marked  by  some  one  who  can  scarce  write,  is  all !  No  attempt  at 
shrubbery,  not  even  a  solicitude  for  removing  the  rubbish  which 
encumbers  all  newly-cleared  lands.  Grief  has  not  yet  sought  the 
aid  of  Taste  to  soften  its  recollections.  The  idea  of  beautifying  the 


268  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


cemetery  is  the  slow  result  of  civilization  and  refined  thought. 
Superstition  used  to  ask  the  shadow  of  the  church,  for  its  dead ; 
and  this  acco'rded  well  with  the  practice  of  continued  prayers  for 
the  parted  soul.  Our  usage  seems  more  simple,  more  in  accordance 
with  our  religious  belief;  yet  the  other  had  a  tender  appeal  in  it, 
and  commends  itself  to  the  feelings  of  all  those  who  have  suffered 
deeply.  How  inseparably  is  the  idea  of  the  Divine  Omnipotence 
connected  with  our  bereavements  !  How  distinctly  we  feel  in  part- 
ing with  our  loved  ones,  that  we  are  committing  them  to  that  faith- 
ful and  just  One,  who  is  able  to  keep  them  for  us,  and  to  re-unite 
us  with  them.  Of  all  the  funeral  hymns  that  have  ever  been  writ- 
ten, perhaps  none  expresses  the  sentiment  of  the  hushed  but  trembling 
heart  of  the  mourner  so  well  as  that  beautiful  one  : 

*  Unveil  thy  bosom,  faithful  tomb  ! 
Take  this  new  treasure  to  thy  trust, 
And  give  the  sacred  relics  room 
To  slumber  in  their  kindred  dust. 

'  Nor  pain,  nor  grief,  nor  anxious  fear 

Invades  thy  bounds ; — no  mortal  woes 
Can  reach  the  peaceful  sleeper  here, 

While  angels  watch  the  soft  repose. 

{ So  Jesus  slept ;— God's  dying  Son 

Passed  through  the  grave,  and  blessed  the  bed. 

Rest  here !  blest  saint !  till  from  his  throne 
The  morning  break  and  pierce  the  shade;' 

At  the  grave  there  is  generally  a  prayer  and  further  exhortation  ; 
but  usually  after  the  coffin  is  lowered,  and  the  earth  partly  replaced, 
the  nearest  relative  of  the  deceased,  or  the  clergyman  at  his  request, 
thanks  the  company  for  their  kindness  and  their  reverent  attendance, 


THE  TOWN  POOR.    •  269 


nnd  so  dismisses  them — a  custom  which,  primitive  as  it  sounds  in 
description,  has  yet  a  grace  and  beauty  to  the  unprejudiced 
observer.  It  is  especially  appropriate  where  so  many  of  the  indi- 
viduals present  have  given  their  attention,  their  personal  services, 
their  sighs  and  tears,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  sad 
period.  To  express  a  feeling  of  obligation  in  such  a  case  is  both 
natural  and  proper,  and  finishes  tenderly  what  has  been  a  matter  of 
feeling  throughout. 

None  can  know  without  actual  experience,  the  deep  teachings  of 
the  most  unpolished  rustic  life.  But  to  return. 

The  funeral  of  this  poor  worn  out  creature  was  an  occasion  of  "as 
much  interest  in  the  neighborhood  as  if  he  had  been  a  rich  proprie- 
tor. The  dignity  of  human  nature  was  acknowledged  by  all,  with- 
out a  grudge  on  the  score  of  pauperism.  Tears  flowed  freely  at  the 
leave-taking,  before  the  coffin  was  closed,  and  the  widow  was  handed 
into  the  best  carnage,  with  the  respect  due  to  deep  affliction. 

But  here  the  pathetic  aspect  of  this  case  fades  at  once.  The  re- 
collections of  poor  Mrs.  Crindle's  consciousness  of  her 'new  mourning 
— the  aii*s  with  which  she  arranged  and  re-arranged  her  veil — the 
pullings  on  and  off  of  the  black  gloves — the-  flutterings  of  the  unac- 
customed white  handkerchief — are  far  too  vivid  to  allow  of  any 
dwelling  upon  the  solemnities  of  the  scene.  The  kindness  of  her 
friends  had  Arrayed  her  in  a  complete  outfit  for  the  occasion,  and 
although  some  of  the  articles  were  only  lent  for  the  funeral,  the  mere 
appearing  in  them  was  too  delicious  to  allow  Mre.  Crindle  to  view 
the  occasion  as  anything  but  a  grand  pageant  in  which  she,  after  all 
her  seclusion,  was  the  observed  of  all  observers.  If  she  thought  of 
poor  Crindle  at  all,  it  was  probably  only  to  regret  he  could  not  have 
seen  his  own  funeral,  and  herself  the  grandest  feature  of  it. 

A  question  soon  arose  as  to  Mrs.  Crindle's  support.     She  had 


270  THE   EVENING  BOOK. 


seven  children,  and  not  one  of  them  able  to  earn  a  living.  One  son 
•was  lame,  through  the  rickets,  and  him  it  was  his  mother's  ambition 
to  bring  up  as  a  school-master.  She  said  he  had  a  big  head  to  hold 
learning,  and  that  his  arms  were  strong  if  his  legs  were  weak.  This 
was  for  the  future,  however.  The  present  concern  was  subsistence, 
and  here  a  series  of  argumentations,  not  to  say  altercations,  ensued 
between  Mrs.  Crindle  and  the  town-officers.  The  functionaries,  po- 
tent in  a  brief  authority,  insisted  that  Mrs.  Crindle  should  do  some- 
thing, however  little,  towards  her  own  support ;  she  maintained  as 
stoutly  that  she  neither  could  nor  would  do  any  such  thing.  She 
had  never  worked  during  her  husband's  lifetime,  and  she  was  not 
going  to  begin  now.  She  had  a  family  of  helpless  children,  and  it 
was  the  cljity  of  the  town  to  see  that  they  did  not  starve.  Nobody 
could  prove  that  she  ever  had  worked,  and  she  took  good  care  not 
to  put  such  proof  in  any  one's  power  by  making  the  slightest 
effort. 

A  proposition  was  made  to  '  put  out'  the  children,  but  to  this  the 
mother  declared  she  never  would  consent.  What !  let  her  poor 
little  dears  go  to  live  with  strangers,  when  they  had  never  been  sep- 
arated from  her  for  a  day — the  thing  was  out  of  the  question  !  She 
would  see  them  starve  first.  But  Mr.  Zeiber,  the  Dutch  poor-mas- 
ter, though  he  shrunk  from  the  rattling  storm  which  the  proposition 
brought  about  his  ears,  was  not  to  be  silenced  very  easily,  and  mat- 
ters came  to  such  a  pass,  that  Mi's.  Crindle  declared  if  she  could  only 
get  to  her  own  people,  in  '  York  State,'  she  wouldn't  be  beholden  to 
nobody  that  begrudged  her  a  living  !  Her  folks  were  respectable, 
and  wouldn't  see  her  want  for  anything  if  they  had  her  and  her 
children  among  them. 

'  They  shall  have  you  !'  was  the  immediate  and  hearty  reply,  and 
as  soon  as  the  idea  was  fairly  set  on  foot  in  the  community,  a  gener- 


THE  TOWN  POOR.  271 


ous  enthusiasm  seerned  to  pervade  the  neighborhood.  The  needful 
clothing  for  the  widow  and  orphans  was  speedily  provided.  The 
guardians  of  the  poor  kindled  with  the  unwonted,  warmth ;  the' 
loose  cash  in  their  hands  was  liberally  appropriated  for  travelling 
expenses  ;  and,  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  a  trusty  agent  was 
appointed .  as  companion  for  the  journey,  with  directions  to  pay  all 
expenses,  handing  over  only  the  balance,  to  the  lady,  lest  some  un- 
fortunate financial  error  should  prevent  the  safe  transportation  of 
these  interesting  members  of  the  community  to  York  State. 

This  arrangement  was  substantially  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Crindle ; 
how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  A  journey  to  the  East !  The  very- 
sound  makes  western  ears  tingle,  especially  when  the  events  of  a 
western  residence  have  been  such  as  to  throw  no  golden  hue  over 
the  new  country.  And  here  that  Elysian  prospect,  a  visit  eastward, 
was  offered  to  Mrs.  Crindle,  the  very  last  person  in  our  whole  com- 
munity for  whom  such  a  blessing  was  supposed  to  be  in  reserve. 
That  Mrs.  Crindle,  emphatically  poor  Mrs.  Crindle,  should  be  so 
favored,  when  the  wives  of  some  of  our  best  (technically  best)  citi- 
zens had  been  trying  for  the  same  thing  for  years  in  vain  !  It  was 
supposed  that  her  cup  must  be  full — nay,  that  it  overflowed  ! 

Yet,  whose  cup  is  without  the  bitter  drop  ?  whose  feast  without 
some  death's  head  ?  whose  villa  without  a  pea-hen  ?  Not  Mrs. 
Crmdle's.  The  guardian  of  the  poor,  (officially,  poor-master — what 
an  undemocratic  term!)  refused  her  at  the  outset  the  use  of  her 
money!  Monstrous!  to  know  that  another  had  money — real  money 
— belonging  to  her,  who  had  hardly  ever  had  a  whole  dollar  at 
once — in  his  pocket,  yet  she  horself  not  be  allowed  to  touch  it ! 
She  was  not  in  the  dark  in  the  matter.  She  knew  for  certain  that 
funds  almost  unlimited — amounting,  at  least,  to  twenty-nine  dollars 
and  fifty-nine  cents,  had  been  collected  for  the  travelling  expenses 


272  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


of  herself  and  children,  and  she  had  looked  forward  to  its  possession, 
on  the  morning  of  her  departure,  as  the  happiest  moment  of  her 
life.  How  overwhelming  the  discovery  that  Mr.  Linacre,  who  had 
been  chosen  to  superintend  the  interests  of  the  unfortunate,  and  at 
the  same  tjme  to  take  care  that  the  public  puree  received  no  unne- 
cessary detriment,  was  to  be  purse-bearer,  regulating,  entirely  at  dis- 
cretion, the  expenditure  of  the  journey  !  Who  could  tell  what  great 
things  her  management  might  have  done  with  so  enormous  a  sum 
as  twenty-nine  dollars,  (to  say  nothing  of  the  cents.)  She  was 
already  planning  a  new  bonnet  for  Jemimy  Jane,  and  thinking  how 
pretty  George  Washington  would  look  in  a  pair  of  high-heeled 
boots  ;  and  of  the  comforts  of  a  whole  pound  of  candy,  (it  comes  so 
cheap  by  the  quantity  !)  for  the  solace  of  the  party  on  the  journey. 
A  widow's  cap  was  of  course  the  proper  thing  to  travel  in ;  and, 
though  Mrs.  Brooke  had  sent  her  one,  the  hems  were  not  half  broad 
enough,  and  a  new  one  could  be  bought  for  next  to  nothing  at  De- 
troit. These,  and  a  thousand  more  of  brilliant  visions,  had  danced 
before  her  mind's  eye  times  innumerable.  Now,  what  a  change ! 
She  not  to  be  trusted  with  her  own  money  ! 

Now,  our  poor-master  was  admirably  fitted  for  his  office — that  of 
providing  for  the  poor,  without  the  public  feeling  the  burden.  Ho 
was  not  naturally  hard-hearted,  even  towards  the  poor,  who  are,  as 
eveiybody  knows,  our  natural  enemies ;  but  his  doctrine  was,  (and 
it  is  eveiy  where  a  popular  one,)  that  those  who  take  care  of  them- 
selves do  not  need  help,  and  those  who  do  not,  don't  deserve  it. 
Some  ill-conditioned  people,  indeed,  would  say  that  Mr.  Zieber  was 
chosen  because  he  was  deaf,  and  so  could  with  difficulty  be  made  to 
hear  the  cries  of  the  needy,  and  lame,  and  therefore  moved  but 
slowly  to  their  relief.  But  this  we  repudiate  as  mere  town  scandal. 
He  showed  alacrity  enough  in  forwarding  Mrs.  Grin  die's  departure. 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  273 


When  the  town  was  to  be  relieved  of  a  burden,  his  lameness  proved 
no  obstacle.  Economy  is  the  only  virtue  we  recognize  in  our  public 
men. 

Mr.  Linacre  was  deaf,  too ;  at  least  so  it  seemed  to  poor  Mrs. 
Crindle,  whose  hints,  inuendos,  and  longings,  openly  or  covertly 
expressed,  as  they  passed  through  sundry  villages  rich  in  shops,  went 
by  him  as  the  idle  wind,  and  never  produced  even  so  much  as  an 
answer.  Wise  Mr.  Linacre !  If  he  had  attempted  to  argue,  he  had 
been  lost.  Nobody  wearing  the  form  of  man  could  have  resisted 
the  widow's  strong  reasons. 

Happily  the  younger  members  of  the  party  shared  none  of  their 
mother's  cares  and  anxieties.  They  had,  to  be  sure,  heard  some- 
thing of  a  large  sum  of  money,  but  they  showed  no  remembrance 
of  it  save  asking  occasionally  for  l  that  'ere  candy.'  They  were  too 
full  of  enjoyment  to  long  for  anything  they  had  not.  To  ride  all 
day  I  To  visit  parts  unknown,  when  they  had  never  been  more 
than  three  or  four  miles  from  home  before !  When  the  wagon 
came  to  the  do6r,  they  could  not  wait  till  the  poor  moveables, 
(truck,  the  farmer  not  inaptly  called  them,)  were  stowed,  but  sprang 
in,  and  took  a  foretaste  of  the  journey,  while  waiting  for  the 
preparations  to  be  completed.  When  once  in  motion,  their  shouts 
of  merry  laughter  would  have  warmed  any  heart  but  an  old 
bachelor's.  At  view  of  the  first  village,  an  involuntary  exclamation 
burst  forth  at  the  sight  of  the  frame  houses.  c  What  a  lot  of 
barns  ! '  *  they  never  having  seen  any  large  frame  buildings,  except 
barns.  When  they  reached  the  railroad,  everything  was  like  a 
wild  dream,  and  they  seemed  as  if  their  little  wits  must  be  unsettled. 
*  How  are  they  going  to  get  that  house  along  with  so  many  folks 
in 't  ? '  said  one.  *  Is  that  a  burying  ? '  asked  another,  staring  at  the 

*  Verbatim. 


274  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


train.  The  whistle  almost  paralyzed  them,  and  when  they  soon 
began  to  be  tired  and  sleepy,  they  actually  fancied  in  their  bewil 
dermeiit  that  the  houses  and  fences  were  flying  away,  while 
they  themselves  stood  still.  It  was  strange,  all  strange  ;  and  they 
began  to  wonder  if  it  was  really  the  same  world  they  had  been 
living  in  all  this  time. 

The  great  Lake  steamer  was  another  world  still,  and  the  blowing 
off  seemed  a  forewarning  of  a  worse  fate  than  they  had  ever 
learned  about  in  the  Catechism.  In  short,  the  pauper  child  is  like 
any  other  child,  when  he  is  where  he  dare  be  anything  but  a 
crushed  worm ;  and  one  blessed  good  of  the  wild  West  is  the 
recognition  of  his  share  in  the  common  humanity. 

But  we  spare  our  readers  further  detail  of  the  incidents  of  the 
journey.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that  the  young  ones  did  not  recover 
from  their  astonishment,  nor  the  mother  from  her  just  indignation 
at  what  she  considered  the  unworthy  conduct  of  Mr.  Linacre  in  the 
suppression  of  her  funds,  by  means  of  which  she  lost  several  great 
bargains,  things  having  been  offered  her  (she  was  assured  by  the 
sellers,)  cheaper  than  was  ever  before  known.  The  consequence  of 
all  this  was,  that  she  had  to  travel  to  the  East  in  unsuitable  apparel, 
which  she  well  knew  was  the  subject  of  unfavorable  remarks  among 
her  fellow-passengers  ;  for-  she  saw  them  whispering  together, 
and  knew  it  must  be  about  her.  Another  hardship  of  which  she 
bitterly  complained  was,  that  she  had  no  presents  to  carry  to  her 
friends  at  the  East,  who  wonld  reasonably  expect  something,  as  she 
had  been  away  from  them  so  long.  Then  tho  children,  poor 
things,  it  certainly  was  very  hard  that  she  could  not  buy  them  any- 
thing, when  she  had  money — or  ought  to  have  it  if  she  had  her 
rights, — and  everything  so  cheap,  too  !  But  Mr.  Linacre  was  like 
the  dumb  idols  who  *  have  ears  but  hear  not — mouths  have  they, 


THE  TOWN  POOR.  2*75 


but  they  speak  not—'  and  he  held  fast  the  deposits  until  they 
reached  the  end  of  the  journey.  It  needed  a  good  deal  of  inquiry 
to  discover  the  residence  of  the  .' respectable '  relatives  of  Mrs. 
Crindle,  as  the  place  had  grown  so  much  during  her  absence> 
that  she  found  herself  quite  at  a  loss  as  to  localities.  As 
*  respectability,'  in  Mr.  Linacre's  estimation,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
world  in  general,  had  something  to  do  with  streets  and  houses,  the 
quest  was  begun  in  the  more  showy  neighborhoods,  and  at  what 
might  be  called  the  Court  End  ;  but  here  no  account  could 
be  obtained  of  the  widow's  friends.  From  the  wide  streets  to 
the  narrow — from  these  to  the  lanes — to  the  by-ways — trooped  our 
weary  wayfarers,  and  in  one  of  the  poorest  of  these  last,  and  in  the 
poorest  hovel  in  it,  the  '  respectables '  were  at  last  unearthed.  The 
hut  was  in  no  particular  better  than  the  one  Mrs.  Crindle  had 
quitted  at  the  West ;  and,  in  fact,  greatly  resembled  it,  except  that 
boards  held  the  place  of  logs,  and  an  uneven  brick  hearth  the  place 
of  an  uneven  stone  one.  Mr.  Linacre  stood  aghast  at  the  sight  of 
the  wretched  poverty  to  which  he  had  brought  his  wards,  and 
it  struck  him  at  once  as  not  improbable  that  the  worthy  board  at 
home  had  been  preciously  humbugged — and  that  by  one  of  their 
own  paupers.  He  witnessed,  however,  a  warm  greeting  frem  the 
old  father,  although  this  was  somewhat  qualified  by  the  sour  looks 
of  a  hard  favored  step-mother,  who  evidently  counted,  at  the  first 
glance,  the  number  of  mouths  that  were  thus  suddenly  added  to  the 
consumers  at  the  paternal  board.  But  he  kept  his  own  counsel. 
Where  would  be  the  use  of  getting  up  a  scene  with  Mrs.  Crindle 
now  ?  She  had  said  her  family  were  *  respectable ' — whose  family 
is  not  respectable,  six  hundred  miles  off  ?  And  why  were  n't  they 
as  respectable  as  anybody's  folks,  she  said,  when  Mr.  Linacre  seemed 
inclined  to  charge  her  with  having  blinded  the  Western  folks  a 


276  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


little.  i  None  of  'em  have  ever  been  in  jail ;  and  if  they  have  n  t, 
lived  as  well  as  other  folks,  that  was  n't  their  fault ;  they  had  lived 
on  the  best  they  could  get.  And  more  than  all,  grandfather  was  a 
revolution  sojer ;  and  if  they  were  a  little  down  in  the  world  now, 
what  of  it  2  They  might  be  up  before  long,  just  as  their  neighbors 
were.'  As  to  imposing  on  people,  Mrs.  Crindle  thought  she  was 
the  one  imposed  upon,  for  she  had  not  had  the  use  of  her  own 
money. 

Mr.  Linacre,  as  we  have  hinted,  thought  it  prudent  to  avoid 
further  discussion,  and  after  paying  over  the  balance  of  the  twenty- 
nine  fifty-nine,  (amounting  only  to  a  few  shillings,  to  Mrs.  Crindle's 
inexpressible  surprise  and  indignation,)  he  took  his  leave — not  very 
proud  of  his  achievement.  What  became  of  the  rest  of  that  money, 
the  widow  never  could  imagine,  unless,  as  she  observed,  Mr.  Linacre 
*  drank  it,  unbenownst.' 

On  his  return  to  our  neighborhood,  Mr.  Linacre,  though  suffi- 
ciently communicative  as  to  the  incidents  of  the  journey,  and  par- 
ticularly jocular  in  his  description  of  a  visit  to  the  Episcopal  Church 
at  Detroit,  where  one  of  the  children  observed  it  was  the  biggest 
school-house  he  ever  saw,  but  wondered  why  the  minister  wore  his 
white  nightgown,  yet  avoided  condescending  upon  any  particulars  as 
to  the  state  in  which  he  found  matters  and  things  among  Mrs. 
Crindle's  respectable  relatives.  He  probably  had  certain  misgivings 
as  to  the  final  result  of  the  expedition,  as  it  was  likely  to  concern 
the  tax  payers  of  the  town  of  P ;  but  he  said  nothing,  prefer- 
ring to  await  the  development  in  the  course  that  the  affairs  of  the 
poor  are  likely  to  take. 

Time  rolled  on.  We  heard  nothing  of  Mrs.  Crindle,  and  the 
town  was  pauperless,  save  for  the  two  orphan  boys  of  a  not 
4  respectable'  mother  who  had  absconded  from  our  bounds.  Mr 


THE  TOWN  POOR.  277 


Linacre,  doubtless,  began  to  hope  that  some  favorable  turn  at  *  the 
East,'  matrimony  perhaps — had  relieved  us  forever  of  the  carpenter's 
family,  when  a  wagon,  loaded  like  the  departing  one  described  some 
pages  since,  rolled  briskly  through  the  village,  and  stopt  at  the 
tavern  ;  whence  flew  like  wildfire  the  annunciation,  *  The  Crindles 
have  come  back !' 

Come  back !  after  all  the  trouble  of  getting  them  off — all  the 
sewings,  the  givings,  the  contrivings ;  the  complete  outfit,  as  the 
villagers  thought  it,  though  Mrs.  Crindle  complained  much  of  the 
deficiencies  and  unhandsomenesses.  There  they  were  again.  The 

authorities  of  the  town  of  Q ,  County  of  Cattaraugus,  State  of 

New  York,  had  met,  and  concluded  that  they  had  subjects  enough 
of  their  own ;  and  that  if  they  assisted  the  father,  it  belonged  to 
others  to  look  after  the  daughter ;  and,  accordingly,  ascertaining 
that  she  had  '  a  residence'  at  the  West,  they  had  despatched  her 
and  hers  at  once,  under  the  care  of  a  trusty  person,  back  to  the 
woods  ;  demanding  from  our  town  not  only  travelling  expanses,  but 
physician's  fees  and  sundry  other  charges,  amounting  to  no  incon- 
siderable sum,  not  to  be  raised  without  many  words  and  sour  looks, 
if  it  do  not  lead  to  a  lawsuit  between  the  two  towns,  one  of  which 
claims  damages  for  *  sending  the  said  widow  to  be  by  it  maintained,' 
which  the  other  refuses  absolutely,  averring  that '  the  said  widow 
went  of  her  own  free  will  and  accord,  without  compulsion  or  advice 
of  the  town  authorities,  whereupon  said  town  joins  issue,'  &c.,  &c. 

The  widow  herself  is  meanwhile  the  most  unconcerned  person  in 
the  town.  She  declares  that  she  had  a  delightful  visit,  and  wouldn't 
have  missed  of  it  for  anything.  The  '  charitable,'  who  contributed 
so  readily  to  the  outfit,  feel  a  little  sore  ;  but  all  join  in  the  laugh 
at  the  widow's  triumph,  and  agree  to  hold  themselves  outwitted. 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL, 

How  many  of  the  rulers  and  magnates  of  this  '  wonderful  coun- 
try,' look  back  to  the  district  school  as  the  nursery  of  the  tender 
germs  of  their  greatness !  How  many  a  judge  can  recollect  when 
he  earned  a  rap  with  the  rattan  by  spelling  law,  lor,  or  jumping 
over  the  bench  when  he  ought  to  have  been  sitting  quietly  upon  it ! 
How  ma.ny  a  governor  imbibed  his  first  notion  of  the  dignity  of 
office,  from  the  grand  air  of  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  paced  the  floor 
with  the  whip  over  his  shoulder,  rolling  his  eyes  magisterially,  now 
on  this  side,  now  on  that,  giving,  ever  and  anon,  a  brief  word  of 
command,  or  stopping,  in  awful  silence,  before  some  negligent 
scholar.  How  majestic  appeared  that  functionary,  even  without  his 
coat ;  how  enviable  the  awful  sway  he  exercised  over  his  charge  ! 
Some  ill-considered  word — some  unjust  judgment — some  sincere 
and  earnest  exhortation  of  those  days,  may  have  influenced,  for  good 
or  ill,  the  moral  character  of  all  present.  How  important,  then,  is 
the  agency  of  the  village-school.  Is  it  not  wonderful  that  we 
Americans,  a  practical  people,  should  take  so  little  pains  to  make  it 
what  it  should  be  ! 

Our  little  realm  has  been  swayed  by  masters  and  mistresses  of  all 
degrees  of  qualification  and  deficiency.  When  the  logs  were  yet  so 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL.  279 


new  that  the  aromatic  odor  of  the  tamarack  was  still  fresh  and  de- 
lightful ;  the  desks  unhacked ;  the  benches  four-legged ;  the  floor 
undespoiled  of  its  knots — we  had  Miss  Cynthia  Day,  a  damsel  of 
few  personal  charms,  and  little  superfluous  learning.  She  came 
amply  recommended  from  a  neighboring  town,  as  *  a  young  woman 
of  good  parts  and  behavior,'  and  so  indeed  we  found  her ;  but  her 
parts  were  not  the  parts  of  speech. 

'  Silas !'  she  would  drawl  out,  '  Si-ilas !  let  them  'are  what's'er 
names  be,  dew  !  You'll  git  it,  if  you  don't !' 

,She  was  an  excellent  aid  at  a  quilting,  especially  as  she  was  left- 
handed,  and  therefore  good  at  corners  ;  and  she  sang  in  meeting, 
with  such  good-will,  and  in  so  nasal  a  style,  that  it  sounded  as  if 
some  one  was  blowing  an  accompaniment  through  a  comb,  as  is 
sometimes  done  at  village  merry-makings. 

But  her  reign  scarcely  lasted  out  the  summer.  She  was  too 
good-natured ;  and,  moreover,  took  so  much  snuff  that  the  little 
ones  sneezed  and  cried  when  they  stood  by  her  knee  to  say  their 
lessons.  She  was  dismissed,  with  some  civil  excuses,  and  found  a 
more  fitting  vocation  as  a  tailoress,  to  which  business,  indeed,  she 
was  bred. 

The  winter  brought  us  Mr.  Hardcastle,  a  young  divinity  student 
from  a  neighboring  village ;  a  sober  and  down-looking  person,  who 
spoke  softly,  and  moved  with  great  deliberation.  He  had  "never 
taught  school  before,  and  was  regularly  examined  before  the  proper 
functionaries.  He  spelt  all  the  words  in  the  spelling-book — that  is, 
all  the  trap-words  in  which  the  examiners  sought  to  catch  him — to 
the  great  astonishment  of  all  present ;  defined  '  Orthography,'  and 
*  Ratiocination,'  and  did  the  sum  on  the  last  page  of  the  arithmetic ; 
so  no  possible  objection  could  be  made  to  him.  But  he,  poor  fel- 
low, was  too  delicate  in  mind  and  body  for  the  place ;  and  before 


280  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


the  spring  opened  he  was  obliged  to  leave  us,  with  a  bad  cough, 
and  a  face  paler  than  when  he  came.  He  did  not  live  to  finish  his 
studies,  and  we  have  always  supposed  that  that  uproarious  school 
hastened  his  end. 

The  lady  who  succeeded  him  had  a  very  angular  nose,  and  the 
thinnest  of  thin  lips,  and  the  sharpest  of  sharp  eyes.  She  was  a 
disciplinarian.  Woe  to  the  unlucky  damsel  who  blotted  her  copy, 
or  the  truant  wight  that  stayed  too  long  when  he  was  sent  for 
water !  That  little  rattan  was  never  still ;  and  Miss  Pinkey  had  an 
ingenious  instrument  of  torture,  which  consisted  of  a  split  quill,  tlyit 
she  placed  on  the  ear  of  the  offender,  and  then  stuck  him  up  on  the 
desk,  a  spectacle  to  the  school.  If  the  offence  was  rank,  the  quill 
was  exchanged  for  a  small  hickory  twig,  which  being  split  and  made 
to  pinch  the  ear,  produced  such  sounds  as  may  be  heard  when  a  pig 
is  caught  unawares  in  a  gate ; — music  which  was  seemingly  pleasant 
in  the  ears  of  Miss  Pinkey.  A  slate  held  out  at  arm's  length,  or  a 
book  balanced  on  the  head,  varied  the  scene  occasionally ;  until  the 
school  ma'am  established  such  order  in  school,  and  such  confusion 
and  anger  in  the  neighborhood,  that  every  body  was  glad  when  the 
approach  of  winter  gave  an  opportunity  to  dismiss  so  efficient  a 
teacher. 

All  this  time  the  '  education'  of  the  district  had  not  made  very 
encouraging  progress.  Reading,  writing  and  arithmetic  remained  at 
a  low  ebb,  while  truancy  and  mischief  had  reached  a  formidable 
pass.  It  was  considered  high  time  to  do  something  decided  for  the 
welfare  of  the  rising  community ;  and  accordingly  steps  were  taken 
to  procure  a  master  from  a  certain  town  in  the  neighborhood,  where 
the  schoolg  had  acquired  high  reputation  for  order  and  progress. 
The  sum  of  sixteen  dollars  per  month  was  a  great  deal  to  pay,  but 
the  teacher  in  question  would  hear  of  nothing  less  ;  and  as  he. was 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL.  281 


to  find  his  own  board,  and,  would  of  course  select  the  house  of  one 
of  the  committee  as  his  home,  the  arrangement  was  at  length  made, 
after  much  debate  and  difficulty.  Mr.  Ball  was  engaged,  and  the 
school-house  scrubbed  out,  the  door  new  hung  so  that  it  would  shut, 
and  every  broken  pane  of  glass  either  replaced,  or  patched  so  that  it 
was  as  good  as  new.  There  was  some  talk  of  new  mudding  the 
school-house  before  the  cold  weather  came  on,  but  that  could  not  be 
carried.  It  was  argued  that  with  woods  all  round  that  wanted  clear- 
ing, it  was  never  worth  while  to  have  houses  made  too  tight. 

On  the  first  Monday  in  November,  Mr.  Ball  made  his  appearance, 
dressed  in  a  new  blue  suit,  with  a  yellow  waistcoat,  and  abundance 
of  shining  brass  buttons.  His  hair  was  brushed  into  a  topknot  or 
rather  a  cock's  comb,  after  the  mode  of  twenty  years  ago,  and  his 
cheeks  were  as  red  as  two  great  Spitzenberg  apples.  He  wore  a 
monstrous  watch,  with  a  very  conspicuous  steel  chain  and  brass  key, 
and  this  cumbrous  apparatus  was  frequently  drawn  out  and  con- 
sulted, as  if  every  moment  of  his  time  was  incalculably  precious — a 
circumstance  which  had  its  due  effect  upon  the  company,  wherever 
he  might  happen  to  be.  In  short,  Mr.  Ball  was  a  blusterer,  who 
was  more  intent  on  impressing  those  about  him  with  a  high  idea  of 
his  personal  consequence,  than  on  performing  the  duties  expected  of 
him.  In  the  school  he  put  on  a  most  lordly  air,  and  at  first  struck 
the  scholars  with  awe ;  but  children  are  too  discerning  to  be  long 
deceived,  and  they  began,  before  a  great  while,  to  take  advantage 
of  the  master's  foibles;  and  to  be  as  idle  and  negligent  as  ever. 

Yet  he  was  not  altogether  a  King  Log  either.  After  unbending 
so  far  as  to  tell  the  scholars  long  stories,  in  which  he  himself  always 
made  a  most  heroic  figure  ;  and  enjoying  their  wondering  comments 
and  facetious  remarks,  he  would  suddenly  change  his  tone,  and 
order  every  one  to  resume  his  studies,  at  the  same  time  declaring  in 


282  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


a  tremendous  voice,  '  I  am  Napoleon  in  my  school !'  which  the  boys 
understood  as  a  threat  against  whoever  should  dare  to  smile  in  the 
ranks. 

This  course  produced  some  sensation  among  the  parents,  who 
were  a  good  deal  puzzled  to  interpret  a  character  which  seemed 
compounded  of  such  incongruous  qualities.  Some  thought  'too 
much  book-larnin'  made  fools  of  people ;  others  that  Mr.  Ball,  hav- 
ing had  a  '  select-school'  of  his  own,  could  not  be  expected  to  lay 
out  all  his  powers  upon  a  district  school.  One  good  lady  suspected 
that  the  master  was  in  love  ;  another  was  afraid  he  drank.  Theo- 
ries abounded,  but  no  satisfactory  result  could  be  obtained,  since  the 
conclusion  of  to-day  was  swept  away  by  the  new  freak  of  to- 
morrow. 

It  happened  that  the  house  of  Mr.  Entwistle,  one  of  the  school- 
inspectors,  had  been  chosen  by  Mr.  Ball  as  a  home ;  and  Mr.  Ent- 
wistle had  half  a  dozen  mischievous  daughters,  who  were  always 
spreading  some  story  of  the  master's  queer  doings.  They  declared 
however  small  might  be  the  bit  of  candle  with  which  they  furnished 
him  at  bed-time,  he  always  had  light  in  his  room  until  midnight ; 
and  the  story  was  corroborated  by  the  notorious  fact  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  make  noise  enough  to  arouse  Mr.  Ball  before  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  when  he  swallowed  the  half-cold  breakfast  reserved 
for  him  by  Mrs.  Entwistle,  and  had  but  just  time  to  reach  the  school- 
house  before  the  clock  struck  nine.  This  encroachment  upon  coun- 
try customs  produced  much  remark ;  for  nothing  is  so  universal 
among  settlers  as  very  early  hours  both  at  evening  and  morning. 

The  girls  at  Mr.  Entwistle's  had  made  many  a  sly  attempt  to  dis- 
cover what  it  was  that  occupied  Mr.  Ba}l  so  late  at  night,  but  never 
could  find  an  article  of  any  description  about  the  room,  everything 
l>eing  carefully  shut  up  in  a  large  chest  with  a  prodigious  lock,  and 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL.  283 


hinges  whose  clasps  half  covered  the  top,  as  if  to  secure  untold 
treasures.  In  vain  did  they  raise  false  alarms  to  bring  the  master 
down  stairs ;  peep  through  the  key-hole  when  they  heard  the  great 
lock  turn ;  and  contrive  reasons  why  the  mysterious  chest  must  be 
opened  in  their  presence.  Mr.  Ball  walked  unconscious,  and  was  as 
if  he  heard  them  not.  When  asked  the  direct  question — as  we 
blush  to  say  he  was  more  than  once — as  to  what  the  great  chest 
had  in  it,  he  answered  simply,  *  Nothing  much.' 

This  was  not  to  be  endured.  Any  attempt  at  privacy  is  con- 
sidered prima  facie  evidence  of  guilt ;  and  it  began  to  be  whispered 
that  there  must  be  something  very  wrong  about  Mr.  Ball's  chest. 

Now  when  Western  people  begin  to  suspect,  they  never  stop 
half  way.  No  trifles  are  ever  thought  of;  but  if  a  man  is  suspected 
of  anything,  it  is  as  likely  to  be  of  stealing,  counterfeiting,  or  any 
one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins,  as  of  any  venial  offence.  So  ere  long 
the  opinion  began  to  be  entertained  that  it  was  somebody's  duty  to 
find  out  what  was  in  the  chest,  in  order  to  come  at  the  master's 
reasons  for  sitting  up  so  late  at  night. 

This  idea  once  started,  it  was  not  difficult  to  decide  upon  the  act ; 
and  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  when  the  schoolmaster  was  congratu- 
lating himself  upon  having  finished  his  week's  work,  and  had  locked 
his  door  in  his  usual  mysterious  manner,  he  was  surprised  to  be 
called  down  stairs  to  a  visitor. 

The  most  *  efficient'  man  in  our  neighborhood  was  Deacon  Brad- 
ley; not  a  bona  fide  deacon,  but  so-called  because  he  exercised  a 
sort  of  half  paternal,  half  spiritual  jurisdiction  on  the  score  of  his 
own  strictness,  and  the  fact  that  he  occasionally  exhorted  in  meeting 
when  no  minister  was  present.  This  worthy  person  had  been 
selected  as  the  spokesman  of  those  whose  consciences  were  troubled 
on  account  of  the  supposed  misdeeds  of  Mr.  Ball.  He  sat  with 


284  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


Mr.  Entwistle  in  the  '  square  room,'  and  both  received  Mr.  Ball  with 
an  air  at  once  solemn  and  fidgetty.  They  felt  sure  that  they  were 
in  the  right  path,  guarding  the  morals  of  the  community ;  yet  they 
certainly  felt  a  little  misgiving  as  to  how  the  master  would  relish 
their  interference  in  his  affairs.  So  they  hum'd  and  ha'd — to  use 
Mr.  Ball's  own  account  of  the  scene — and  dwelt  so  long  upon  the 
state  of  the  weather  and  the  prospects  for  next  summer,  that  the 
delinquent  began  to  conclude  the  visit  was  intended  simply  as  a 
mark  of  respect,  and  his  natural  swell  was  doubtless  not  a  little 
increased. 

At  length,  however,  Deacon  Bradley  approached  the  real  subject, 
by  means  of  some  very  adroit  remarks  upon  the  dreadful  effects  of 
wickedness  in  general,  and  especially  of  certain  particular  offences 
at  which  he  more  than  hinted.  Mr.  Ball  assented  to  all  these  obser- 
vations with  great  readiness,  adding  gratuitously  some  severe  stric- 
tures of  his  own  on  the  sins  in  question.  The  deacon  then  touched 
upou  irregular  habits  as  very  apt  to  lead  to  evil ;  very  soon  came 
down  upon  late  hours  as  belonging  to  this  class,  and  closed  a  some- 
what formal  address  by  a  direct  charge  upon  the  schoolmaster  of 
setting  a  bad  example,  and  exciting  the  suspicion  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, by  his  odd  ways  of  locking  his  door  and  never  letting  any- 
body see  the  inside  of  his  chest ! 

It  may  be  supposed  that  this  attack  did  not  meet  a  very  amiable 
response  from  one  used  to  *  awful  rule,  supremacy  and  sway,'  and 
who  was  conscious  that  he  knew  a  good  deal  more  of  *  orthography, 
etymology,  syntax,  and  prosody,'  than  his  lecturers,  to  say  nothing 
of  arithmetic  and  a  smattering  of  surveying.  He  blustered  a  good 
deal,  and  stood  upon  his  rights,  and  wondered  what  business  it  was 
of  anybody's  what  he  did  when  school  was  over ;  but  the  old  folks 
stuck  to  their  point  with  such  pertinacity,  that  Mr.  Ball  at  length 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL.  285 


found  nothing   would  clear  his  fame  but  exhibiting  the  contents 
of  the  fatal  chest. 

So  he  marched  Mr.  Entwistle  and  the  deacon  in  solemn  array  up 
to  his  room,  and  as  soon  as  they  were  inside  the  door,  turned  the 
key  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  thereby  occasioning  some  ill-disguised 
alarm  on  the  part  of  the  deacon,  who  expected  nothing  less  than 
pistols,  or  some  other  awful  engine  of  destruction,  to  pop  up  when 
the  chest  should  open. 

*  Now,  gentlemen,'  said  Mr.  Ball,  with  more  than  his  usual  swag- 
ger, *  your  doubts  shall  be  set  at  rest ;  but,  remember,  that  I  leave 
your  district  on  Monday  morning,  and  you  may  find  who  you  will 
to  keep  your  school.' 

Mr.  Entwistle  paused  a  little  upon  this,  and  would  have  restrained 
his  more  zealous  companion  ;  but  curiosity  had  so  far  the  better  of 
the  deacon's  prudence,  that  he  declared  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  go  on. 
Whereupon  the  schoolmaster  unlocked  the  mysterious  chest,  and 
displayed  a  very  scanty  amount  of  shirts  and  stockings,  with  a  pro- 
digious pile  of  James's  novels,  and  a  file  or  two  of  newspapers  ;  a 
phrenological  head,  a  few  candles,  and  a  bottle  of  blacking  with 
brushes ! 

And  this  was  all !  The  examiners  stood  looking  down  into  the 
half  empty  abyss ;  and,  we  will  hope,  experienced  some  compunc- 
tious visitings ;  but  they  owned  nothing  of  the  kind.  Mr.  Entwistle 
professed  himself  satisfied,  and  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  he 
was  recalled  by  an  exclamation  from  the  deacon,  who  had  taken  up 
some  of  the  papers. 

*  A  Univarsal  paper  !'  he  cried,  as  if  horrified  by  the  very  sight. 
*A  Univarsal  paper!     Would   you  read  such   things   as   that? 
Pretty  thing  for  a  school-teacher  I  should  think  !     For  my  part  I 
would  rather  there  should  never  be  a  teacher  in  the  place  than  to 


280  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


have  a  Univarsaler !  My  children  should  never  have  gone  a  day, 
if  I'd  a  know'd  it !' 

Whether  the  deacon's  pious  indignation  was  entirely  genuine  and 
spontaneous,  or  whether  it  was  called  up  to  cover  what  he  felt  to  be 
a  ridiculous  position,  must  be  left  doubtful.  It  served  his  turn,  by 
causing  Mr.  Ball's  angry  departure  to  be  attended  by  a  cloud  of 
odium,  raised  by  those  who,  professing  no  religion  at  all,  were  still 
willing  to  embrace  any  opportunity  of  siding  with  those  who  did — 
that  being  the  popular  tone  in  our  particular  part  of  the  country. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  have  it  understood,  that  having  observed  cause 
of  suspicion,  Deacon  Bradley  had  found  ample  explanation  of  Mr. 
Ball's  conduct  in  the  papers  and  other  things  found  in  the  myste- 
rious chest,  upon  the  particulars  of  which  a  prudent  silence  was 
observed  by  the  parties  concerned. 

Unfortunately  for  Mr.  Ball's  reputation,  in  less  than  a  week  from 
the  time  he  left  us,  the  schoolhouse  was  burnt  down ;  and  as  it  had 
been  closed  from  his  departure,  it  seemed  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  suppose  that  he  and  his  revenge  were  at  the  bottom  of  the 
accident.  The  few  friends  left  among  us  by  that  overbearing  digni- 
tary, thought,  but  hardly  dared  to  say,  that,  as  far  as  probabilities 
went,  it  seemed  quite  as  likely  that  somebody  whose  intent  it 
was  to  vilify  the  schoolmaster  had  been  accessory  to  the  burning,  as 
that  Mr.  Ball  should  have  come  from  his  place  of  residence,  which 
was  many  miles  off,  to  perform  the  operation,  under  a  thousand 
chances  of  detection.  Another  doubtful  point. 

After  this  disaster,  the  funds  being  low,  Mr.  Henry  offered  to  lee 
his  upper  chamber  for  the  temporary  use  of  the  district,  leaving  the 
building  of  a  new  school-house  until  after  harvest,  when  contribu- 
tions of  money  and  labor  would  be  much  more  readily  obtained. 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL.  267 


So  Miss  Wealthy  Turner  was  forthwith  established  in  a  huge,  unfar- 
'  nished  room,  with^  a  few  temporary  seats  for  the  scholars,  and  a 
board  laid  upon  two  barrels  to  serve  as  a  writing-table.  This 
afforded  some  amusement,  and  so  aided  Miss  Wealthy  to  keep  order 
among  the  refractory  imps,  though  one  boy  who  had  lived  at  '  the 
East,'  earned  the  ratan  by  saying  that  we  had  a  *  high  school'  now, 
because  it  was  up  stairs  ;  which  Miss  Wealthy  considered  an  inju- 
rious and  sarcastic  reflection  upon  the  dignity  of  the  establishment. 
By  way  of  revenging  himself,  the  urchin  called  her  Miss  Twister, 
which  coming  to  her  ears  brought  him  another  castigation  ;  and 
parties  soon  being  formed,  discord  began  to  shake  her  scorpion  whip 
over  us  again.  Miss  Turner,  however,  kept  her  ground ;  pacified 
the  naughty  boy's  mother,  by  netting  her  a  very  curious  and  elabo- 
rate cap ;  and  vindicated  her  authority  by  such  strictness  in  school, 
that  offences  gradually  became  less  frequent,  and  the  interests  of 
learning  advanced  accordingly. 

One  occurrence  during  Miss  Turner's  reign  she  would  often  her- 
self relate  with  much  gout.  The  floor  of  the  temporary  school- 
room, being  only  of  loose,  boards,  afforded  much  opportunity  of 
observing  the  doings  of  Mr.  Henry's  family,  who  lived  and  carried 
on  all  domestic  operations  in  the  room  below  ;  and  one  day,  when 
Mrs.  Hemy  was  making  an  unusual  clatter  in  cleaning  her  domicile, 
and  Miss  Turner  happened  to  be  absent  for  a  short  time,  the  wfcole 
school  were  on  their  knees,  peeping  through  a  wide  crack  in  their 
floor,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  watching  Mrs  Henry,  as  she 
dashed  water  upon  hers.  At  this  very  point,  while  every  eye  was 
fixed,  and  every*  nose  pressed  flat,  in  the  desire  to  enjcy  as  much 
stolen  pleasure  as  possible,  Miss  Wealthy  returned,  and,  taking  the 
enemy  at  disadvantage,  administered  a  general  corrective,  before 
anybody  could  summon  wits  enough  to  stand  on  the  defensive. 


288  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


The  general  discomfiture  and  crest-fallenness  of  even   the  boldest 
may  be  imagined !  and  Miss  Wealthy  Turner's  triumph ! 

It  is  really  astonishing  how  savage  and  Herod-like  school-keep- 
ing makes  some  people.  Miss  Wealthy  got  married  not  long  after 
this ;  and  some  of  us  thought  he  was  a  bold  man  that  took  her. 


THE  SINGING  SCHOOL, 

*  Music  has  charms,'  unquestionably ;  we  have  great  authority 
for  defending  the  proposition  against  all  challengers.  What  a 
disquisition  we  might  write  upon  such  a  text !  but  we  will  not 
venture  upon  abstractions.  Let  us  rather  apply  to  facts,  and 
inquire  to  what  amount  of  effort  and  sacrifice  music  not  absolutely 
perfect  will  induce  unsophisticated  people  to  submit  ;  what 
departures  from  all-compelling  habit  will  seem  tolerable  when  music 
is  the  object ;  what  momentous  results  may  follow  when  the  concord 
of  sweet  sounds  (aided  by  the  pitch-pipe,)  has  waked  up  all  the 
tenderness  that  ventures  to  sojourn  in  the  breast  of  the  stout 
backwoodsman. 

People  in  the  country  never  go  in  search  of  music.  It  comes  to 
them  ;  not  from  the  *  sweet  south/  but  from  the  yellow  orient,  (the 
land  of  pumpkins,)  in  the  shape  of  lank  youths,  of  aspect  faintly 
clerical,  wearing  black  coats  on  which  the  rime  of  age  has  begun  to 
settle,  and  'excellent  white'  bosoms,  curiously  wrought — 'welked 
bosoms,'  indeed,  perhaps  typical  of  the  wounds  and  scars  left  by 
the  cruel  archer  who  is  so  busy  at  singing  schools.  These 
'  professors ' — a  name  which  they  often  assume  with  peculiar 
propriety — generally  carry  their  breadwinners  with  them,  in  the 
13 


290  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


sole  shape  of  a  stout  pair  of  lungs,  and  a  flexile  organ — nasal  organ 
we  mean — habituated  to  the  modulation  of  sound.  He  who  brings 
a  flute  takes  rank  accordingly ;  the  happy  possessor  of  a  bassviol 
can  afford  to  beard  the  minister  himself  in  the  choice  of  tunes. 
These  last  do  not  often  enlighten  the  woodland  and  prairie  regions  : 
they  haunt  the  larger  towns,  where  dignity  may  hope  to  find  a  soil 
wherein  to  flourish. 

The  arrival  of  the  first  singing-master  in  our  village  was  a 
crisis.  The  fine  arts  then  dawned  upon  us,  and  a  genial  excite- 
ment was  the  due  result.  What  was  ordinary  business,  except  as  it 
earned  leisure  or  money — sweeping  and  dusting,  unless  to  get  the 
square-room  in  order  for  a  call — churning,  but  to  make  butter  for  a 
tea- visit  which  might  happen  ?  The  girls  flew  about,  as  somebody 
irreverently  says,  '  iike  geese  before  a  storm ; '  the  young  men 
looked  black  as  the  storm  itself,  when  they  thought  of  the  formida- 
ble competition  that  now  threatened  their  influence.  Meanwhile, 
Mr.  Fasole  was  sitting  on  the  counter  at  the  store,  telling  great 
things  of  himself,  and  asking  questions  about  the  neighborhood. 
The  news  went  by  nature's  own  telegraph,  and  the  remotest  corner 
of  the  town  knew  in  ample  time  of  the  singing-school  we  were 
to  have  at  B . 

The  school-house  was  crowded  the  very  first  night,  and  lighted 
on  the  individual  principle,  that  is,  by  each  member  bringing 
his  own  candle.  The  candlesticks  were  mostly  extemporary — a 
block  of  wood  with  a  hole  in  it,  or  a  little  knot  of  paper,  or 
a  scooped  turnip— to  be  held  in  the  hand  during  the  whole 
evening,  since  they  were  not  made  to  stand.  The  candles  seemed, 
indeed,  rather  made  to  run  ;  at  least  that  was  what  they  did,  most 
uncontrollably ;  but  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  moment  was  such, 
that  the  inconvenience  was  hardly  noticed.  Mr.  Fasole  appeared  in 


THE   SINGING   SCHOOL.  291 


the  awful  desk,  his  vermilion  head  looming  out  from  the  blackboard 
behind  him,  like  the  rising  moon  in  the  dark  sky  of  autumn. 
Before  him  lay  a  pile  of  singing-books,  which  he  informed  the 
assembly, — in  the  course  of  a  few  preliminary  remarks  on  music  in 
general  and  his  own  music  especially, — he  had  brought  with  him, 
merely  for  their  convenience,  at  one  dollar  each.  At  this  stage, 
those  who  had  brought  with  them  Sacred  Choirs,  and  Singer's 
Assistants,  and  Vocal  Harmonists,  that  had  been  heir-looms  in  the 
family  long  before  the  emigration,  looked  somewhat  blank,  and 
sighed.  But  Mr.  Fasole  went  on,  showing  such  science,  such  taste, 
such  utter  contempt  for  all  other  methods  than  his  own,  that  the  old 
books  disappeared,  one  by  one ;  dissolving,  perhaps,  like  the  candles, 
but  at  any  rate  becoming  invisible. 

When  the  class  came  to  be  formed,  the  dollar  singing-book 
proved  like  a  huge  rock  in  the  track  of  a  railway ;  there  was  no 
getting  over  it  or  round  it ;  it  must  be  tunnelled  right  through,  but 
how  ?  Would  the  scientific  man  take  corn, — would  he  accept 
shingles, — would  butter  do, — would  eggs  pass  current  ?  Could  the 
dollar  be  paid  in  board  or  lodging,  or  washing  or  sewing  ?  *  An 
order  on  the  store,' — '  my  cloth  at  the  fulling-mill,' — '  that  lot  of 
yarn,' — '  our  cosset  lamb,' — '  a  panful  of  maple  sugar,' — such  were 
the  distincter  sounds,  that  rose  above  the  chorus,  as  each  claimed  to 
be  excused  from  paying  cash  down.  Mr.  Fasole  was  wise  ;  he 
accepted  a  composition  in  every  case  in  which  he  had  not  privately 
satisfied  himself  that  the  money  would  be  forthcoming  at  the  last 
pinch,  and  the  class  came  to  order  for  the  first  lesson. 

We  know  not  what  Mr.  Hullah's  success  may  be  among  the 
cockneys,  but  with  us,  *  music  for  the  million '  is  a  serious  matter. 
Contortions  dire  and  sad  grimace,  and  sounds  as  when  a  flock  of 
much  maligned  birds,  disturbed  from  their  resting-place  by  the 


292  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


road-side,  revenge  themselves  by  screaming  at  the  interloper — all 
were  there.  But  not  a  muscle  of  the  teacher's  face  showed  that  he 
was  the  conscious  possessor  of  ears.  With  looks  of  unperturbed 
gravity,  he  gave  the  signal  to  begin — to  stop — to  stop — to  stop 
again,  and  begin  again.  He  himself  led  the  panting  host,  his  chin 
buried  deep  in  his  stock,  and  his  eyebrows  raised  as  if  to  be  out  of 
the  way  of  the  volume  of  sound  that  issued  from  the  mouth  that 
opened  like  an  oyster  below.  This  laborious  diligence  soon 
rendered  an  intermission  necessary,  and  as  it  had  been  agreed  to  do 
all  things  with  great  order  and  propriety,  the  master  announced  that 
the  company  were  to  keep  their  seats,  while  water  (much  needed) 
should  be  brought  to  them  ;  which  was  done  accordingly — the 
school-pail  and  tin  cup  being  carried  round  by  one  of  the  stoutest 
youths,  and  the  refreshing  beverage  distributed  amid  much  tittering 
and  some  pretendedly  accidental  spillings  by  the  giddier  members. 

Part  second  proceeded  on  a  more  moderate  scale.  Some  little 
exhaustion  was  felt,  and  the  candles  being  slender,  were  failing  even 
faster  than  the  strength  of  the  company.  Joe  Deal's  burnt  down  to 
his  fingers  unawares,  as  he  was  leaning  over  to  talk  to  Sarah  Giles ; 
and  his  not  very  polite  or  well-considered  exclamation  thereupon 
was  reprehended  with  severe  dignity  by  the  professor.  This  caused 
something  of  a  hiatus  in  the  performance,  and  it  was  almost 
hopeless  to  restore  the  order  that  had  reigned  before  the  inter- 
mission. The  allotted  time  had  not  elapsed,  however,  and  a  smart 
rap  on  the  desk  recalled  public  attention.  All  bent  assiduously  over 
the  book,  and  the  harmony  was  about  to  be  renewed,  when  Ansel 
Green,  who  was  always  an  unlucky  fellow,  set  his  own  huge  shock 
of  hair  on  fire,  and  illuminated  the  room  with  a  blaze  that  reached 
nearly  to  the  ceiling. 

This  naturally  finished  the  first  meeting ;  for  not  only  did  the 


THE  SINGING  SCHOOL.  293 


accident  create  the  *  most  admired  disorder,'  but  the  piteous  look, 
and  diving  self-abstraction  of  poor  Ansel,  brought  out  irrepressible 
and  continuous  laughter  that  was  too  much  even  for  Mr.  Fasole ; 
though  as  soon  as  he  could  compose  his  countenance,  he  assured  the 
company  that  nothing  was  more  common  than  for  people  to  burn 
off  all  their  hair  in  learning  to  sing,  though  he  did  not  think  it  was 
necessary. 

The  fame  of  our  singing-school  spread  far  and  wide,  and  each 
return  of  the  regular  evening  brought  rxsruits  from  distant  parts, 
whose  ambition  had  been  awakened  by  the  great  accounts  industri- 
ously circulated  of  the  success  of  Mr.  Fasole.  Some  of  these  recruits 
were  by  no  means  raw,  and  they  brought  with  them  settled  opinions 
on  certain  points  connected  with  church-singing,  by  no  means 
agreeable  to  Mr.  Fasole.  Strange  perversion  of  human  nature,  that 
makes  discord  but  too  often  the  result  of  harmony  !  Sharps,  flats, 
and  naturals  are  amiable  in  their  place,  but  in  musical  quarrels  how 
they  jangle !  Old  tunes  and  new  tunes,  particular  metres,  and 
minor  chords,  quick  and  slow,  false  and  true,  everything  was  theme 
for  difference.  It  was  believed,  actually,  that  one  of  the  new-comers 
was  a  singing  master  in  disguise,  so  '  cunning  of  fence'  did  he  show 
himself  in  all  matters  relating  to  the  due  effect  of  church  music. 
Poor  Mr.  Fasole's  face  grew  anxious,  till  his  very  hair  looked  faded, 
at  this  invasion  of  his  prerogative.  When  he  could  not  refute,  he 
sneered  ;  when  oujgeneralled,  he  attempted  revenge  ;  but,  as  in  all 
cases,  the  more  angry  he  grew,  the  worse  his  cause  prospered.  Peo- 
ple took  sides,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  the  wise  chose  the  side 
whose  leader  seemed  coolest. 

But  fortune  interfered  in  favor  of  the  lawful  occupant  of  the 
ground.  It  came  to  light,  that  the  insidious  foe  who  had  troubled 
our  '  piping  times  of  peace,'  was  not  only  a  singing-master,  but  a 


294  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


married  man !  a  person  who  had  really  nothing  interesting  about 
him,  and  who  had,  from  the  mere  pedagogical  infirmity  of  loving  to 
dictate,  taken  the  trouble  to  come  over  and  spoil  our  sport !  The 
faithful  grew  louder  than  ever  in  their  praises  of  Mr.  Fasole ;  the 
neutrals  gave  in  their  allegiance,  and  even  the  opposition  slipped  as 
quietly  as  possible  back  to  their  old  position,  striving,  by  extra 
docility,  to  atone  for  a  short  defection.  For  once  legitimacy 
triumphed,  and  renewed  zeal  showed  itself  in  utter  disregard  of  the 
dripping  of  candles,  or  even  the  scorching  of  hair. 

The  prettiest  girl  that  attended  our  singing-meetings  was  Jane 
Gordon,  the  only  daughter  of  a  Scotchman  who  had  lately  bought 
a  farm  in  the  neighborhood.  She  was  a  fair  and  gentle  damsel, 
soft-spoken  and  down-looking,  but  not  without  a  stout  will  of  her 
own,  such  as,  they  do  say,  your  very  soft-spoken  people  are  apt  to 
have.  Indeed,  we  may  argue  that  to  be  able  at  all  times  to  com- 
mand one's  voice  down  to  a  given  level,  requiies  a  pretty  strong  will, 
'and  more  self-possession  than  impetuous  people  ever  can  have  ;  and 
it  is  well  known  that  blusterers  are  easier  governed  than  anybody 
else.  Jane  Gordon  had  light  hair,  too,  which  hasty  observers  are 
apt  to  consider  a  sign  of  a  mild  and  complying  temper ;  but  our 
dear  Jane,  though  a  good  girl,  and  a  dutiful  daughter,  had  had  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  with  old  Adam,  and  given  her  sober  parents  a 
good  deal  too. 

So  that,  by  and  by,  when  is  was  whispered  thaj;  Jane  Gordon  was 
certainly  in  love  with  Mr.  Fasole,  and  that  Mr.  Fasole  was  at  least 
very  attentive  to  Jane  Gordon,  the  old  people  felt  a  good  deal 
troubled.  They  were  prudent,  however,  and  only  watched  and 
waited,  though  quite  determined  that  an  itinerant  singing-master 
should  not  cany  off  their  treasure,  to  be  a  mere  foot-ball  of  Fortune, 
and  have. 


THE  SINGING  SCHOOL.  295 


nor  house  nor  ha', 
Nor  fire,  nor  candle-light. 

And  at  every  singing-meeting  the  intimacy  between  Mr.  Fasole  and 
his  fair  pupil  became  more  apparent,  and  the  faces  of  the  unappro- 
priated damsels  longed  and  longer.  The  district-schoolmaster,  that 
winter,  was  a  frightful  old  man,  with  a  face  like  a  death's-head,  set 
off  by  a  pair  of  huge  round-eyed  spectacles,  so  he  was  out  of  the 
question,  even  if  he  had  not  had  a  wife  and  family  to  share  his 
sixteen  dollars  a  month.  The  store-keeper,  Squire  Hooper's  partner, 
had  impudently  gone  off  to  the  next  town  for  a  wife,  but  a  few 
weeks  before ;  and  a  young  lawyer  who  talked  of  settling  among 
us  as  soon  as  there  was  anything  to  do — (he  had  an  eye  on  the 
setting-back  of  the  mill-pond,  we  suspect) — did  nothing  but  smoke 
cigars  and  play  checkers  on  the  store-counter,  and  tell  stories  of  the 
great  doings  at  the  place  he  had  been  haunting  before  he  came 
among  us.  So  the  dearth  of  beaux  was  stringent,  mere  farmer-boys 
being  generally  too  shy  to  make  anything  of,  until  they  have  bought 
land  and  stock,  when  they  begin  to  look  round,  with  a  business  eye, 
for  somebody  to  make  butter  and  cheese.  Mr.  Fasole,  with  his  knowr 
ing  air,  and  a  plentiful  stock  of  modest  assurance,  reigned  paramount, 
'the  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes.'  He  'cut  a  wide  swath,'  the 
young  men  said,  and  it  may  be  supposed  they  owed  him  no  good 
will. 

How  matters  can  remain  for  any  length  of  time  in  such  an  explo- 
sive state  without  an  eruption,  let  philosophers  tell.  Twice  a  week, 
for  a  whole,  long,  Western  winter,  did  the  singing-school  meet 
regularly  at  the  school-house,  and  practise  the  tunes  which  were  to 
be  sung  on  Sunday  ;  and  every  Sunday  did  one  or  two  break-downs 
attest  that  improvement  in  music  could  not  have  been  the  sole 
object  of  such  persevering  industry.  Sometimes  a  bold  bass  would 


296  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


be  found  finishing  off,  for  a  bar  or  two,  in  nappy  unconsciousness  that 
its  harmonious  compeers  had  ceased  to  vibrate.  Then  again,  owing 
to  the  failure,  through  timidity  or  obliviousness,  of  some  main  stay, 
the  whole  volume  of  sound  would  quaver  away,  trembling  into 
silence  or  worse,  while  the  minister  would  shift  his  eyes,  with  a  look 
of  meek  endurance,  and  wait  until  Mr.  Fasole,  frowning,  and  putting 
on  something  of  the  air  with  which  we  jerk  up  the  head  of  a  stumb- 
ling horse,  could  get  his  unbroken  team  in  order  again.  Jane  Gor- 
don was  not  very  bright  at  singing,  perhaps  because  she  was  suffer- 
ing uader  that  sort  of  fascination  which  is  apt  to  make  people  stupid ; 
and  she  was  often  the  '  broken  tooth  and  foot  out  of  joiut'  at  whose 
door  these  unlucky  accidents  were  laid  by  the  choir.  Mr.  Fasole 
always  took  her  part,  however,  and  told  the  accuser  to  'look  at 
home,'  or  hinted  at  some  by-gone  blunder  of  the  whole  class,  or 
declared  that  Miss  Jane  evidently  had  a  bad  cold — not  the  first 
time  that  a  bad  cold  has  served  as  an  apology  for  singing  out  of 
time. 

The  period  for  a  spring  quarterly  meeting  of  one  of  the  leading 
denominations  now  drew  nigh,  and  a  great  gathering  was  expected. 
Ministers  from  far  and  near,  and  a  numerous  baptism  in  the  pond, 
were  looked  for.  Preparations  of  all  sorts  were  set  on  foot,  and 
among  the  rest,  music  '  suited  to  the  occasion.'  The  choice  of  *  set 
pieces'  and  anthems,  and  new  tunes,  gave  quite  a  new  direction  and 
spur  to  the  musical  interest ;  but  Mr.  Fasole  and  Jane  Gordon  were 
not  forgotten.  There  was  time  to  watch  them,  and  sing  too. 
Through  the  whole  winter,  the  singing-master  thought  proper  to 
see  Miss  Gordon  home,  except  when  it  was  very  cold  or  stormy, 
when  he  modestly  withdrew,  with  an  air  which  said  he  did  not 
wish  his  attentions  to  seem  particular.  It  had  become  quite  a  trick 
with  the  young  men  to  listen  by  the  roadside,  in  order  to  ascertain 


THE  SIXGING   SCHOOL.  297 


whether  he  did  not  pop  the  question  somewhere  between  the  school- 
house  and  Mr.  Gordon's ;  but  the  conclusion  was,  that  either  he  was 
too  discreet  to  do  it,  or  too  cunning  to  let  it  be  heard,  for  nothing 
could  ever  be  distinguished  but  the  most  ordinary  talk.  Nothing 
could  be  more  obvious,  however,  than  that,  whatever  were  Mr.  Fa- 
sole's  intentions,  poor  Jane  was  very  much  in  earnest.  She  lost  all 
her  interest  in  the  village  circle,  and,  too  honest  and  sincere  for  con- 
cealment, only  found  her  spirits  when  the  fascinating  singing-master 
appeared. — He  had  the  magnetizer's  power  over  the  whole  being  of 
the  pupil.  The  parents  observed  all  this  with  the  greatest  uneasiness, 
and  remonstrated  with  her  on  the  imprudence  of  her  conduct,  but 
in  vain.  They  reminded  her  that  no  one  knew  anything  about  the 
singing-master,  and  that  he  veiy  probably  had  at  least  one  wife 
elsewhere,  although  it  was  past  the  art  of  man  to  betray  him  into 
any  acknowledgement  of  such  incumbrance  ;  but  Jane  was  deaf  to 
all  caution,  and  evidently  only  waited  for  the  votary  of  music  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  ask,  before  she  should  courtesy  and  say  yes. 

The  quarterly  meeting  came  on,  and  Squire  Hooper's  big  barn 
was  filled  to  overflowing.  A  long  platform  had  been  erected  for 
the  ministers,  and  rough  seats  in  abundance  for  the  congregation  ; 
but  every  beam,  pin,  and  '  coign  of  vantage,'  was  hung  with  human 
life,  in  some  shape  or  other.  Such  a  gathering  had  not  been  seen  in 
a  long  while.  In  front  was  placed  Mr.  Fasole,  with  Jane  Gordon 
on  his  left  hand.  White  was  his  bosom,  (outside,)  and  fiery  red 
his  hair  and  face,  as  he  wrought  vehemently  in  beating  time,  while 
he  sent  out  volumes,  not  to  say  whole  editions,  of  sound.  One 
could  not  but  conclude  that  every  emotion  of  his  soul  must  find 
utterance  in  the  course  of  the  morning's  performance,  if  Jane  Gordon 
only  h'stened  aright,  which  she  seemed  very  well  disposed  to  do. 
But  the  concluding  hymn  was  to  be  the  crowning  effort.  It  abound- 


298  THE   EVENING   BOOK. 


ed  in  fugues — those  fatal  favorites  of  country  choirs,  and  had  also 
several  solos,  which  Mr.  Fasole  had  assigned  to  Jane  Gordon,  in 
spite  of  the  angry  inuendoes  of  other  pretenders.  He  had  drilled 
her  most  perseveringly,  and,  though  not  without  some  misgivings, 
had  succeeded  in  persuading  himself,  as  well  as  his  pupil,  that  she 
would  get  through  these  *  tight  places'  very  well,  with  a  little  help 
from  him. 

When  the  whole  immense  assembly  rose  to  listen  while  the 
choir  performed  this  '  set  piece,'  it  was  with  a  sound  like  the  rushing 
of  many  waters,  and  poor  Jane,  notwithstanding  the  whispered 
assurances  of  the  master,  began  to  feel  her  courage  oozing  out,  as 
woman's  courage  is  apt  to  do  just  when  it  is  most  wanted.  She 
got  through  her  portion  of  the  harmony  with  tolerable  credit ;  but 
when  it  came  to  the  first  solo,  it  was  as  if  one  did  take  her  by  the 
throat,  and  the  sounds  died  away  on  her  lips.  Dread  silence  ensued, 
but  in  a  moment,  from  the  other  side  of  the  barn,  seemingly  from  a 
far  distant  loft,  a  female  voice,  clear,  distinct,  and  well  trained,  took 
up  the  recreant  strain,  and  carried  it  through  triumphantly.  Then 
the  chorus  rose,  and,  encouraged  by  this  opportune  aid,  performed 
their  part  to  admiration — so  well,  indeed,  and  with  so  much  enthu 
siasm,  that  they  did  not  at  first  miss  the  leading  of  Mr.  Fasole. 
When  the  solo's  turn  came,  they  had  time  to  look  round  :  and  while 
the  distant  voice  once  more  sent  its  clear  tones  meandering  among 
the  rafters  and  through  the  mows  and  out  of  the  wide  doors,  all  the 
class  turned  to  look  at  the  master.  There  he  stood — agape — astaro 
— pale — spiritless — astonished — petrified  ;  his  jaw  fallen,  his  nose 
pinched  in,  his  eyes  sunken  and  hollow  and  fixed  in  wild  gaze  on 
the  dim  distance  whence  issued  the  potent  sound,  while  poor  Jane's 
fascinated  optics  gazed  nowhere  but  on  him.  But  before  note  could 
be  taken  of  their  condition,  the  chorus  must  once  more  join  in  the 


THE  SINGING   SCHOOL.  299 


last  triumphant  burst,  for  the  new  auxiliary  had  inspired  them  like 
a  heavenly  visitant,  and  they  could  not  attend  to  sublunary  things. 
They  finished  in  a  perfect  blaze  of  glory,  the  unknown  voice  sound- 
ing far  above  all  others,  and  carrying  its  part  as  independently  as 
Mr.  Fasole  himself  could  have  done. 

4  What  is  the  matter  with  the  singing-master  ?'  '  Has  he  got  a 
fit  ?'  *  Is  he  dying  ?'  was  whispered  through  the  crowd  .as  soon  as 
the  meeting  was  dismissed.  '  Bring  water — whiskey — a  fan — oh 
goodness  !  what  is  to  be  done  ?' 

'  Let  me  come  to  him,'  said  a  powerful  voice  just  at  hand  ;  and, 
as  the  crowd  opened,  a  tall,  masculine  woman,  of  no  very  prepos- 
sessing exterior,  made  her  way  to  the  fainting  Orpheus. 

*  Jedediah !'  she  exclaimed,  giving  a  stout  lift  to  the  drooping 
head  ;  '  Jedediah  !  don't  you  know  your  own  Polly  Ann  ?' 

It  was  Mrs.  Fasole — a  very  promising  scholar  whom  the  unhappy 
teacher  had  married  at  the  scene  of  former  labors,  somewhere  in  the 
interior  of  Illinois,  hoping  to  find  her  a  true  help-meet  in  the  pro- 
fessional line*  But,  discovering  to  his  cost  that  she  understood  only 
one  kind  of  harmony,  and  that  not  of  the  description  most  valuable  in 
private,  he  had  run  away  from  her  and  her  big  brothers,  and  hoped, 
in  the  deep  seclusion  of  still  newer  regions,  to  escape  her  for  ever, 
and  pass  for  that  popular  person,  an  agreeable  bachelor.  Whether 
he  was  really  villain  enough  to  have  intended  to  marry  poor  Jane 
too,  we  cannot  know,  but  we  will  charitably  hope  not ;  though  we 
are  not  sure  that  wantonly  to  trifle  with  an  innocent  girl's  affections 
for  the  gratification  of  his  vanity  was  many  shades  less  culpable. 
The  world  judges  differently,  we  know,  since  it  makes  one  offenco 
punishable  by  law,  while  the  other  is  considered,  in  certain  circles, 
rather  a  good  joke  than  otherwise.  But  the  singing-master  and  his 
fearful  spouse  disappeared,  and  those  who  had  not  joined  the  class 


300  THE    EVENING  BOOK. 


exulted ;  while,  as  far  as  public  demonstration  went,  we  could  not 
see  but  the  singing  at  meeting  fell  back  to  very  nearly  the  old  mark, 
under  the  auspices  of  old  deacon  Ingalls,  who  has  for  many  years 
been  troubled  with  a  polypus  in  his  nose. 

Jane  Gordon  is  a  much  more  sensible  girl  than  she  was  two  years 
ago,  and  looks  with  no  little  complacency  upon  Jacob  Still,  a  neigh- 
bor's son,  who  boasts  that  he  can  turn  a  furrow  much  better  than  he 
can  a  tune. 


A  WEDDING  IN  THE  WOODS. 

IT  has  been  said  that  one  who  would  retire  from  the  world, 
should  betake  himself  to  a  large  city.  Certain  it  is  that  in  the 
country,  where  everybody  seems  to  feel  a  personal  responsibility  for 
the  doings  of  the  neighborhood,  nothing  is  more  difficult  than 
to  maintain  an  independent  course  as  to  one's  own  affairs.  What  is 
known  to  be  the  expressed  sentiment  of  all  about  you,  exercises 
more  or  less  influence,  do  what  you  will ;  and  you  are  as  apt 
to  show  your  respect  for  the  town-talk  by  an  angry  persistence,  as  by 
a  timid  relinquishment  of  your  plans.  It  certainly  requires  more 
philosophy  than  most  country  people  possess,  to  live  as  if  the 
neighbors  were  cabbages — no  difficult  attainment  in  the  city. 

There  was  one  family  near  the  little  village  of  B ,  who  were 

regarded  at  once  with  suspicion  and  a  somewhat  unwilling  respect, 
from  the  quiet  and  original  course  which  they  adopted ;  resolutely 
following  out  their  own  plans,  and  rarely  expressing  an  opinion  as  to 
the  doings  of  their  neighbors.  Mr.  Arnold  came  to  the  West  with 
some  property,  although  he  was  a  hard-working  farmer ;  and  when  he 
was  about  to  put  up  his  log-house,  instead  of  calling  the  neighbors 
together,  and  having  a  grand  frolic,  with  plenty  of  whiskey,  at  the 
raising,  he  quietly  hired  the  requisite  number  of  laborers,  and  had  his 
house  ready  for  roofing  before  anybody  knew  the  timbers  were  hewed. 


302  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


This  caused  many  a  frown,  and  not  a  little  shaking  of  the  head 
among  the  sages  of  the  vicinity,  who  saw  nothing  but  '  pride' — that 
unpardonable  sin  rf  the  woods — in  this  way  of  doing  things. 

Here  we  must  turn  a  little  aside  to  describe  what  most  of 
our  readers  have  probably  never  seen — a  veritable  log-house — an 
important  affair  in  western  life. 

The  log-house  in  which  it  was  our  fate  first  to  look  western  life 
in  the  face,  was  a  rather  unusually  rough  one,  built  when  the  country 
was  quiet  new,  before  a  road  was  made,  or  any  access  beyond  a 
bridle-path  through  the  woods,  or,  more  properly,  the  'openings.' 
Its  dimensions  were,  twenty-four  feet  by  eighteen — no  great  area,  but 
not  encroached  upon  by  the  chimney,  which  was  carried  up  outside, 
after  the  fashion  of  what  children  call  a  jackstraw  house,  i.  e,  with 
sticks  laid  in  a  square,  crossing  at  the  cornel's.  The  portion  of  the 
wall  against  which  leaned  this  very  primitive-looking  outlet  for  the 
smoke,  was  composed  of  a  great  slab  of  rough  stone  ;  otherwise,  all 
around  was  wood — a  boundless  provision  for  roast  pig  after  Charles 
Lamb's  fashion.  The  clay  with  which  the  stick  chimney  was  lined, 
fell  off,  day  by  day,  so  that  its  catching  fire  in  spots  was  almost  a 
daily  occurrence,  and  continual  watchfulness  was  required,  especially 
in  the  evening,  since  a  midnight  bonfire  in  the  woods  is  no  very  un- 
common accident.  The  hearth  which  belonged  to  this  chimney  was 
quite  in  keeping ;  for  it  was  made  of  rough  fragments,  split  off  the 
boulders  which  are  the  only  stone  to  be  found  in  that  part  of  the 
country ;  and  laid  with  such  indifference'*  to  level,  that  some  points 
were  from  four  to  six  inches  higher  than  their  neighbors.  No  man- 
telpiece surmounted  this  savage  fire-place ;  but  a  crotched  post  on 
one  side  supported  a  wooden  crane,  which  swung  far  enough  above 
the  fire  not  to  catch,  unless  the  blaze  was  more  aspiring  than 
ordinary, 


A    WEDDING    IX    THE    WOODS.  303 


On  one  side  of  the  fire-place  was  a  ladder,  leading  to  the  loft 
above  ;  on  the  other,  a  few  rough  shelves,  on  which  to  arrange  the 
household  apparatus — so  few,  that  all  our  previous  notions  of  the 
incapacity  of  a  log-house  had  not  taught  us  to  reduce  our  stock  low 
enough.  An  additional  closet,  outside  the  house,  proved  to  be  one 
of  the  first  requisites  for  a  new  home ;  and  besides  this,  a  centre-table, 
which  had  once  done  drawing-room  duty,  was  put  in  requisition  as 
a  cupboard,  a. tablecloth  to  keep  out  dust  being  the  substitute  for  a 
door. 

If  the  arrangements  to  be  made  within  this  small  space  of  twenty- 
four  by  eighteen  had  been  only  those  of  kitchen  and  dining-room 
the  necessities  of  back-woods  life  would  have  reconciled  one  to  the 
narrowness  .of  the  quarters ;  but  when  bed-chamber  and  nursery 
were  to  be  crowded  into  the  same  area,  the  packing  became  almost 
as  difficult  as  the  feat  of  putting  a  bushel  of  lime,  a  bushel  of  sand, 
and  eight  gallons  of  water  into  one  and  the  same  bushel  measure 
together,  which  we  had  heard  of,  but  never  believed  until  we  made 
our  log-house  arrangements.  However,  by  the  aid  of  some  heavy 
curtains — a  partition  which  seemed  almost  all  that  one  could  wish, 
by  contrast  with  the  cotton  sheets  which  were  in  general  use  for 
that  purpose  through  the  country,  at  that  time — we  contrived  to 
make  two  bed-rooms,  each  about  as  large  as  a  steamboat  state-room. 
The  loft  above  afforded  floor  room  for  beds,  but  was  not  high  enough 
to  allow  one  to  stand  upright,  except  in  the  very  centre,  under  the 
ridge  of  the  roof. 

The  floors  in  this  unsophisticated  dwelling  were  of  a  correspond- 
ing simplicity.  Heavy  oak  plank,  laid  down  without  nails  or  fast- 
ening of  any  kind,  somewhat  warped,  and  not  very  closely  packed, 
afforded  a  footing  by  no  means  agreeable,  or  even  secure.  To  trip 
in  crossing  the  room,  even  at  a  sedate  pace,  was  nothing  uncommon ; 


304  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


and  the  children  were  continually  complaining  of  the  disappearance 
of  their  playthings,  which  slid  through  the  cracks  to  regions  unex- 
plored. 

About  the  middle  of  the  floor  was  a  trap-door,  composed  of  three 
loose  pieces  of  board,  which  had  to  be  taken  up  separately  when  one 
would  descend  into  the  '  cellar.'  This  so-called  cellar  was  a  hole 
dug  in  the  earth,  without  wall,  floor,  or  window ;  and  the  only  mode 
of  access  to  it  was  by  the  said  trap-door,  without  steps  of  any  kind. 
The  stout  damsels  who  sometimes  did  us  the  favor  to  perform  cer- 
tain domestic  offices  for  our  benefit,  used  to  place  a  hand  on  each 
side  the  trap,  and  let  themselves  down  with  an  adventurous  swing, 
returning  to  the  upper  air  by  an  exertion  of  the  arms  which  would 
be  severe  for  many  a  man  unaccustomed  to  muscular  effort.  Such 
a  door  as  this  was  of  course  literally  a  trap ;  for  as  it  was  necessa- 
rily left  open  while  any  one  was  below,  stepping  down  into  it  una- 
wares was  by  no  means  an  infrequent  accident.  So  that  if  there 
was  no  Radcliffian  mystery  about  it,  there  was  at  least  the  exciting 
chance  of  a  broken  limb. 

This  same  loose  floor,  with  the  open  spaces  beneath  it,  had  an- 
other interesting  chance  attending  it.  Strange  little  noises,  like 
whispers,  and  occasional  movements  during  the  stillness  of  night, 
told  that  we  were  not  the  only  settlers  under  the  roof;  and  one  fine 
spring  morning,  when  the  sun  shone  warm  and  the  eaves  were 
trickling  with  the  thaw  of  a  light  snow,  a  beautiful  rattlesnake 
glided  out  from  below  the  house,  and  set  off  for  the  pond  at  a  very 
dignified  pace.  His  'plans  were  partially  frustrated ;  for  about  a 
foot  or  so  of  his  tail  was  cut  off  before  he  had  proceeded  far ;  but 
his  head  took  the  hint,  and  inspired  the  body  with  such  unwonted 
activity,  that  we  could  never  ascertain  whether  he  died  of  mortifica- 
tion or  not.  Such  tenants  as  this  were  not  to  be  desired,  and  we 


A    WEDDING    IN    THE    WOODS.  305 


made  a  thorough  search  after  the  family,  but  they  had  not  waited  a 
writ  of  ejectment. 

Toads,  too,  were  among  our  social  inmates.  They  are  fond  of 
hopping  in,  in  a  neighborly  way,  during  the  twilight,  and  will  sit 
staring  and  winking  at  you  as  if  they  were  tipsy.  If  you  drive  them 
out,  they  never  take  offence,  but  come  again  very  soon,  seeming  as 
good-natured  as  ever.  They  are  very  well  if  you  do  not  tread  on 
them. 

The  walls  of  a  log-house  are  of  course  very  rough  and  uneven ; 
for  the  logs  are  laid  up  unhewn,  as  probably  most  of  our  city 
readers  have  observed  in  pictures.  The  deep  indentations  are 
partially  filled  with  strips  of  wood,  and  then  plastered  with  wet 
clay,  which  falls  off  continually,  and  requires  partial  renewing  every 
autumn.  This  clay,  in  its  dry  state,  gives  off  incessantly  an  impal- 
pable dust,  which  covers  and  pervades  everyth^jng ;  so  that  the  office 
of  housemaid  is  no  sinecure.  In  addition^  to  this  annoyance, 
the  beams  not  being  plastered,  soon  become  wormreaten,  and  the 
worms  are  not  like  snails,  that  stay  forever  at  home — but  we  will 
not  pursue  the  subject.  Suffice  to  say,  it  is  inconvenient  to  have 
anybody  walking  about  aloft  while  you  sit  at  dinner. 

To  go  on  with  our  story.  After  the  raising,  Mrs.  Arnold  was  ill ; 
and  far  from  having  her  room  thronged  with  the  wise  women  of  the 
neighborhood,  trying  as  many  fumigations,  draughts,  and  'yarb- 
drinks,'  as  would  have  sufficed  to  kill  nine  well  women,  Mr.  Arnold 
stayed  at  home  from  the  field,  day  after  day,  apparently  for  no 
other  purpose  than  to  stand  guard  at  her  door,  letting  nobody 
in  besides  the  doctor  and  nurse  ;  and  comforting  the  anxiety  of  the 
neighbors  by  assurances  that  Mrs.  Arnold  was  doing  very  well. 
This  was  a  deep  offence ;  and  though  Mrs.  Arnold  had  recovered,  so 
as  to  ride  out  before  anybody  forgot  the  slight  sufficiently  to  call  to 


306  THE    EVENING   BOOK. 


see  her,  yet  she  expressed  no  surprise  or  sorrow,  but  treated  hei 
visitors  with  her  usual  quiet  kindness. 

The  Arnolds  went  oh  prosperously ;  showing  a  kind  interest  at  all 
proper  opportunities,  and  making  the  worthier  neighbors  like  them, 
whether  they  would  or  no.  The  reserve  which  had  been  set  down 
to  pride  and  ill-will,  came  to  be  considered  only  oddity ;  and  at  the 
period  when  the  wedding  took  place  of  which  we  began  to  tell, 
nobody  in  the  whole  town  was  more  popular  than  the  Arnold 
family.  Perhaps  the  growing  up  of  a  sweet,  comely  daughter 
in  the  family  was  an  unrecognized  element  of  harmony  between  the 
Arnolds  and  those  about  them.  A  young  woman  who  is  lovely 
both  in  person  and  character  is  irresistible  everywhere.  She  is  the 
light  of  her  father's  house,  the  ornament  of  society,  and  the  point  at 
which  the  admiration,  interest  and  affection  of  those  about  her 
naturally  concentrate.  She  is  in  the  social  circle  what  the  moss-rose 
is  in  the  garden — of  the  same  general  nature  with  the  rest,  but  half 
veiled,  fresh  and  delicate  ;  in  her  very  modesty  and  retiringness 
outshining  all  others — the  emblem  of  sweet  reserve  and  innocent 
pleasure.  Our  friends,  the  Arnolds,  possessed  such  a  treasure,  and 
they  prized  her  as  she  deserved.  They  required  of  her  all  womanly 
duty  ;  but  they  had  her  carefully  instructed,  and  watched  over  her 
with  aa  intelligent  care,  which,  while  it  did  not  interfere  with 
the  exercise  of  her  own  judgment,  guarded  her  against  all  the 
coarseness  but  too  rife  in  that  region. 

The  fair  Lois  had  long  been  considered  '  on  the  fence '  between 
two  lovers ;  and,  as  usual,  the  affair,  though  it  might  be  supposed  a 
matter  to  interest  only  those  immediately  concerned,  became  the 
especial  business  of  everybody  in  the  neighborhood.  Whenever 
poor  Lois  walked  out  she  would  encounter  prying  eyes  at  every 
window  and  door,  on  the  watch  to  discover  whom  she  might  meet, 


A   WEDDING    IN    THE    WOODS.  307 


and  what  direction  might  be  given  to  her  steps.  If  she  turned  down 
the  lane  that  led  to  old  Mr.  Gillett's,  the  world  became  sure  that 
Frank  Gillett  was  the  happy  man;  if,  on  the  contrary,  she  kept 
straight  onward  to  the  village,  it  was  to  see  the  handsome 
storekeeper,  Sam  Brayton,  who  had  long  visited  at  Mr.  Arnold's  on 
Sunday  evenings,  and  was  disposed  to  extend  his  sittings  further  into 
the  night  than  had  been  the  custom  of  that  sober  mansion.  It  was 
recorded  of  Sam  that  he  always  sat,  in  pretended  unconsciousness 
of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  until  Mrs.  Arnold  had  put  up  her  knit- 
ting with  a  veiy  audible  yawn,  and  Mr.  Arnold  had  brought  m  a 
huge  shovel,  and  a  pail  of  water,  in  preparation  for  covering  up  the 
fire.  Miss  Lois,  at  the  same  time,  becoming  very  taciturn,  and  re- 
turning only  monosyllabic  replies  to  the  sallies  of  her  admirer,  ha 
was  obliged  to  beat  a  retreat — a  monument  of  the  power  of 
passive  resistance.  Frank  Gillett,  on  the  contrary,  had  not  patience 
for  this  sort  of  blockade.  He  waylaid  Lois  sometimes  as  she  was 
returning  from  her  Uncle  Dyer's  on  horseback ;  or  dashed  in,  on 
some  pretended  errand,  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  when  Mrs. 
Arnold  was  deep  in  churning,  and  Lois  plying  the  graceful  great 
wheel  in  the  '  chamber ' — a  wide  space  of  bare  boards  above  the 
spacious  lower  story  of  Mr.  Arnold's  log-house.  Frank  also  felt  it 
his  duty  to  keep  Lois  duly  apprized  of  all  the  cases  of  sickness  or 
shocking  accidents  in  the  neighborhood ;  as  she  was  a  nice  little 
nurse,  and  a  famous  *  watcher ' — this  last  no  sinecure  in  a  country 
village,  where  the  well  are  often  worn  out  in  nightly  attendance, 
in  cases  of  so  little  importance  that  city  people  would  not  think  of 
requiring  such  service.  When  Lois's  ministrations  in  this  way  were 
in  demand,  Frank  always  came  for  her,  and  so  saved  her  father  the 
Decessity  of  going  out  in  the  evening — a  thing  hated  by  all 


308  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


hard-working  farmers,  who  usually  love  to  sit  dozing  in  the  chimney 
corner,  when  they  do  not  go  to  bed  at  nightfall. 

Lois  was  a  good  girl,  and  a  pretty  girl,  and  an  only  daughter;  so 
it  is  not  wonderful  that  her  hand  was  considered  quite  a  speculation, 
and  many  a  wild  fellow  from  some  miles'  distance  had  tried  to 
interest  her;  but  her  innocence  and  delicacy  were  proof  against 
such  equivocal  courtship.  She  treated  the  two  '  neebor  lads '  we 
have  mentioned,  with  a  modest  confidence,  and  avoided,  with  native 
tact,  giving  preference  to  either — perhaps,  because  she  really  felt 
none.  They  had  grown  up  together  on  friendly  terms,  and  as  there 
seemed  no  particular  period  at  which  the  young  men  became  lovers, 
so  the  fair  Lois  chose  to  ignore  the  fact — though  we  shrewdly 
suspect  she  was  not  blind  to  what  everybody  in  the  village  saw  and 
talked  of — the  keen  though  subdued  rivalry  of  Sam  Brayton  and 
Frank  Gillett. 

If  the  two  suitors  had  been  Italians,  instead  of  offsets  from  the 
quiet  and  law-abiding  stock  of  Puritanism,  there  were  not  wanting 
occasions  in  the  course  of  their  pursuit  of  the  prize,  when  stilettos 
might  have  been  drawn  and  blood  spilt.  But  a  peaceful  education 
led  them  rather  to  seek  to  gain  the  point  by  stratagem  ;  and  many 
a  strawberry  party,  many  a  sleighing,  many  a  pic-nic  (or  barbecue, 
as  such  things  are  called  at  the  West),  did  the  young  people  of  the 
neighborhood  enjoy,  for  which  they  might  have  thanked  Lois 
Arnold,  whoever  may  have  claimed  the  honor  :  for  our  tw« 
enamored  swains  were  at  their  wits'  end  for  some  means  of 
interesting  this  object  of  their  emulation,  and  overcoming  hei 
formidable  impartiality. 

It  was  chance,  after  all,  that  brought  matters  to  a  focus ;  for  Lois 
was  riding  out  with  a  party  of  young  people,  when  her  horse  took 
it  into  his  head  to  run  away,  and  Frank  Gillett,  in  rescuing  her  from 


A    WEDDING    IN    THE    WOODS.  309 


imminent  danger,  brought  his  own  life  into  peril,  and  was  carried 
home  much  injured.  We  will  not  assert  that  this  brought  Lois  to 
decide  in  his  favor ;  for  we  have  a  notion  that  no  love  worth  having 
is  based  on  merely  accidental  causes.  But  it  certainly  made 
evident  a  preference,  which,  perhaps,  existed  previously ;  and  before 
Frank  was  quite  enough  recovered  to  take  his  place  on  the  farm 
again,  the  story  was  afloat  that  Sam  Bray  ton  had  decidedly  *  got 
the  mitten.' 

He  did  not  take  this  very  amiably ;  that  would  have  been  quite 
out  of  character  for  a  country  beau.  Writing  poetry,  or  contempla- 
ting the  stars,  is  not  among  the  resources  of  the  rejected  in  a 
primitive  state  of  society  ;  and  the  duel — that  unanswerable  mode 
of  proving  one's  worth — is  hardly  known  even  by  name.  To  talk 
of  *  thrashing ' — not  the  lady,  but  the  accepted  swain — is  much 
more  characteristic  ;  but  Frank  Gillett  was  such  a  good  fellow,  and 
bore  his  honors  with  so  little  of  a  swell,  that  even  this  was  hardly 
feasible  ;  so  Brayton  bided  his  time. 

When  harvest  was  over,  and  all  the  grain  safely  housed,  spring 
wheat  in,  and  corn  ready  for  husking,  Frank  had  time  to  be 
married  ;  and  it  was  decided  that  Lois  Arnold  ought  to  have 
'  a  real  wedding.'  This  implied  a  regular  frolic ;  a  turning  the 
house  out  of  window,  and  converting  incredible  quantities  of  flour 
and  sugar,  milk  and  eggs,  into  delicacies  for  the  delectation  of  a 
wide  sweep  of  country — not  to  mention  dancing  ad  libitum. 
What  toils  are  undergone  !  what  anxieties  experienced  !  what 
fingers  burnt — in  this  grand  preparation,  the  muse  must  not 
attempt  to  tell.  Some  village  Homer  has  yet  to  sing  sucli  feasts  for 
the  admiration  of  after  ages. 

A  very  usual  mode — we  may  venture  to  say  the  usual  mode — of 
binding  one's  self,  for  better  or  for  worse,  in  the  western  country,  is 


310  THE  EVENING  BOOK. 


to  have  the  knot  tied  by  the  nearest  justice — a  form  so  succinct  that 
one  could  scarcely  wonder,  if  everybody  should  forget  the  whole 
affair  the  next  hour.  The  man  in  authority  stands  up,  with  a  grave 
countenance,  takes  hold  of  a  chair,  by  which  to  steady  himself  while 
he  speaks,  and  looks  straight  at  the  young  couple — which  last  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at,  for  they  are  generally  quite  a  spectacle,  with 
their  white  lips  and  cheeks  of  rainbow  hue. 

So  stood  Lois  Arnold  and  Frank  Gillett  before  Squire  Millard ; 
Lois  in  a  dress  of  soft  silvery  looking  silk,- with  a  white  rose  in  her 
hair  and  another  in  her  hand ;  and  Frank,  with  his  fine  athletic 
person  set  out  in  a  white  waistcoat  for  the  occasion,  and  his  face 
looking  anything  but  pale.  Even  Lois  seemed  more  inclined  to 
laugh  than  cry,  and  some  young  ladies  whispered — '  She  don't 
mind  it  a  bit ! ' 

What  was  the  surprise  of  the  company,  when  the  Squire,  after  a 
vain  effort  to  command  his  countenance,  said — 

'  I  certify  that  Francis  Gillett  and  Lois  Arnold  were  lawfully 
married  a  week  ago.' 

After  this  announcement  Squire  Millard  made  good  his  retreat, 
not  being  a  dancer,  and  having,  moreover,  a  vague  fear  that  he 
might  be  torn  to  pieces  in  the  frantic  demonstrations  of  surprise 
which  succeeded  the  first  pause — such  a  pause  as  ensues  upon  an 
unusually  heavy  clap  of  thunder. 

Everybody  stood  aghast,  at  first,  as  if  some  great  wrong  had  been 
committed  ;  and  after  the  grand  surprise  was  over,  and  the  amiables 
of  the  neighborhood  had  joined  in  the  dance  with  new  zest  in 
consequence  of  the  stir  occasioned  by  the  denouement,  a  few 
disaffected  young  men — Sam  Brayton  and  his  friends — still  stood 
aloof,  and  whispered  in  corners,  casting  now  and  then  a  look  at  the 
newly-niarried  couple  that  was  anything  but  friendly.  They  knew 


A.    WEDDING    IN    THE    WOODS. 


very  well  that  the  thing  was  a  trick  to  avoid  certain  annoyances, 
which  are  not  uncommon  on  wedding-occasions  in  the  country,  when 
anybody  feels  aggrieved  by  the  circumstances  of  the  marriage.  If 
the  right  people  are  not  invited ;  or  if  the  match  is  so  dispropor- 
tioned  in  age  as  to  excite  the  indignation  of  the  sovereign  people ; 
or  if  some  old  bluebeard  takes  a  third  helpmate — any  of  these 
causes,  or  even  less,  is  sufficient  to  excuse  a  sort  of  row,  which  is 
kept  up  for  hours  under  the  windows,  or  until  those  concerned  open 
the  doors  and  '  treat. ' 

It  was  plain  enough  that  the  party,  who  espoused  the  cause  of 
mitten-holder,  did  not  mean  to  be  cheated  of  their  charivari ;  but 
the  dancing  went  on,  and  the  hilarity  of  the  occasion  continued 
unbroken,  until  eleven  o'clock,  when  the  company  dropped  off,  a 
wagon  full  at  a  time,  till  at  length  all  was  quiet,  and  no  sign  of  life 
was  left  about  the  premises,  except  a  light  or  two,  burning  dimly  in 
the  house. 

Then  began  the  din.  Bells,  guns,  drums,  tin  horns,  whistles, 
frying  pans,  and  shovels,  aided  the  unearthly  howlings  of  the 
performers,  until  the  neighbors  a  mile  off  heard  the  disturbance,  and 
the  owls  in  the  woods  hooted  in  concert.  This  went  on  for  an  hour 
or  two,  but  there  were  no  signs  of  capitulation  on  the  part  of  the 
fortress.  The  lights  burned  on  as  quietly  as  ever,  and  not  a  sound 
could  be  heard,  though  Sam  Brayton  laid  his  ear  to  the  window, 
and  listened  with  all  his  might.  Further  demonstrations  were  now 
judged  advisable,  and  a  bunch  of  thick  rods  was  procured,  with 
which  the  assailants  beat  against  the  house  itself,  which  being 
partly  boarded,  made  a  prodigious  reverberation.  Still  no  door 
opened.  Guns  were  fired  as  near  the  windows  as  possible,  pebbles 
were  thrown  down  the  chimney,  and  a  pig  hung  by  the  leg  to  the 
latch  of  the  door ;  but  no  remonstrance  was  heard.  By  this  time, 


SJ2  THE    EVENING    BOOK. 


the  night  had  so  far  waned  that  some  symptoms  of  dawn  began  to 
be  observable  in  the  east,  and  the  conspirators,  weary  and  disap- 
pointed, began  to  talk  of  going  home  to  bed. 

'  I  Ve  worked  harder  than  I  ever  did  in  harvest/  said  one. 

'  Harvest ! '  exclaimed  another.  *  Thrashin'  time 's  nothing  to  it  > 
Let's  go  home  ! ' 

'  Stop  a  minute, '  said  Sam  Brayton,  stung  at  the  ill  success  of 
his  plans  ;  '  I  '11  make  'em  come  out,  yet ! '  and  with  the  word  he 
threw  a  large  stone  at  the  upper  window,  with  force  enough  to 
break  it,  sash  and  all,  but  not  to  endanger  those  within. 

Upon  the  accomplishment  of  this  feat,  the  whole  party  fled,  for 
the  '  law '  has  great  terrors  for  the  backwoodsman,  though  he 
inflicts  it  upon  others  with  small  provocation.  Every  one  ran  home, 
and  crept  into  bed  as  quietly  as  possible,  lest  the  offence  should  be 
fastened  on  him,  which  would  have  brought  double  punishment  of 
expense  and  mortification — so  complete  was  the  failure. 

In  spite  of  all  these  precautions,  however,  the  matter  was  brought 
home  to  Sam  Brayton  so  undeniably  that  he  was  glad  to  repair  the 
damage  to  avoid  worse  consequences  ;  and  it  was  not  till  afterwards 
he  discovered  that,  anticipating  annoyance,  the  whole  Arnold  family, 
including  bride  and  bridegroom,  had  slipped  off  that  night  quietly 
with  the  guests,  and  gone  up  to  lodge  at  Uncle  Dyer's. 


